War of the Damned
by TheSinfulWolf
Summary: 1189 AD. As armies of God clash in the Middle East, a vampire warrior in self exile must travel across Europe to save her clan. Throughout the journey she hopes to find vengeance, and redemption. M for violence, language and sexual content.
1. Once a Queen

**War of the Damned**

**Chapter 1: Once a Queen**

The wind howled in from over the great dark expanse of the ocean, as the waves crashed upon the rocks below. The water looked inky black, even beneath the glow of the half moon in the sky above. Atop the cliff, with pale green eyes staring out over the seemingly endless expanse of treacherous water, stood a solitary woman, black hair snapping behind her in the night air, skirts waving around her like a phantom. Thin lips pressed together almost in a frown.

She could feel the chill on the harsh wind on her deathly pale skin, but it did not sink in. One amongst the living would have been shivering, with chattering teeth, but she simply stood on the edge of the cliff, still as if carved from marble.

The northern islands of Scotland was not a place she ever expected to find herself. Once a princess, once the High Queen of the kingdoms of Breton to the south, the harsh highlands of Scotland had never been inviting to her. Here she stood however, alone now, while everyone she had loved rotted in centuries old graves and tombs. Most even faded from fact into the songs of legend and the fogs of myth. She couldn't help but wonder if they had forgiven her actions in the afterlife, or if they have forgotten her in death, as she could not forget them in her mockery of life.

Gwenhwyfar turned from the sea and began to walk barefoot across the cool grass towards the large house sitting atop a gently slopping hill. The once rich wood of the old mead hall was turning to gray in its age perched above the ocean, as it looked down upon the single village on the island. While Gwenhwyfar's home was dark, there were a few spots of torchlight emanating from the village. In the fields surrounding the small mostly thatch homes, white sheep wandered almost aimlessly, contrasting against the darkness of night.

Though the villagers were Christian, they accepted Gwenhwyfar's presence, on the account that she protected them from Norwegian invaders whilst the sparse Scottish military could not. In return they occasionally sent someone up for her to feed upon. It was a good deal, and in a way, Gwenhwyfar felt like she was queen of this little island.

Pushing the doors to her home open, the smell of incense washed out over her. Off to her left was the staircase that led to her bedroom and study. Yawning out before her was the main hall. Old tables were aligned down its full length with a throne for the hall's master set on a dais at the far end. A fire pit, unused for year sat in a sorrowful pile of ashes in the room's centre, whilst two doors on either side of the throne led to the cellars and kitchens. It did not compare to Arthur's castle, but this was her home, and it suited her well. When the village below used to be Pagan, great feasts had been held in here, and despite Gwenhwyfar's nature, they accepted her.

The spreading of the White Christ changed all that, and now for the most part, the vampire lived alone. Save the occasional offering of the flesh from the village.

She moved up the stairs, hand running over the wolf's head carved at the foot of the banister as she passed it. Her steps were soft, gentle, but she moved quickly, and silently opened the door to her personal quarters.

She had brought what she could from her home by heavy cart and boat. It was her vanity, a sin according to the Christians. A beautiful oaken desk, covered in parchment with an inkwell and quill laying to the side was pushed against the far side of the room, opposite the large bed pushed against the wall and centred off. Bookshelves stood proud, filled with dusty tomes that Gwenhwyfar hardly touched anymore. Books of songs and stories. Books of history and ancient rituals.

A large chest, holding all of her old dresses and gowns, as well as her more practical tunics and breeches, sat on the floor on one side of her bed. On the other side an armour stand stood guard, with a sheathed sword was on an engraved display at the blackened armours feet, but she ignored it as she moved to the bed where a woman lay, the sheets hardly concealing her nudity, as moonlight poured in through the window above the desk. Gwenhwyfar gently pressed her fingers against the woman's lips, and felt the soft breath on her skin.

Her name was Katelyn, a peasant from the village below who had yet to find a husband, despite reaching her mind twenties. For a few years now, she had been coming up to offer her blood to Gwenhwyfar as part of the village's deal. Just as important to the vampire, she offered company, and after the first few visits both had fallen to the temptations of the other.

Gwenhwyfar bent down and placed a soft cool kiss on the woman's warm forehead, whilst gently brushing the skin of her cheek, and over her neck where the scars from many nights together showed as a faded pink. Two much newer holes were still an angry red, and Gwenhwyfar gently kissed each one, though Katelyn in her deep sleep might not feel them, for her lover had brought her so very close to death. Just as it was every time.

Gwenhwyfar stood and undid the fastenings of her dress, and pulled the garment over her head, before gently placing it in her chest. Naked, she moved to the window, and drew the heavy black curtains to block the sun when it rose in just a few hours, before moving back to her bed, and crawling beneath the sheets.

Pressing her body against Katelyn, a hand running down the other woman's side, Gwenhwyfar smiled and let her eyes flutter closed. There was a soft groan from the sleeping woman's mouth, and Gwenhwyfar let herself drift to sleep next to her. Before her dreams took her, the woman who was once a queen was happy.


	2. The Clan of the Rose

**Chapter 2: The Clan of the Rose**

A noise pierced the darkness of sleep, and Gwenhwyfar's eyes snapped open. As awareness came over her mind, she noted the daylight struggling and failing to get through the curtains, meaning whoever was making the noise downstairs was not supposed to be there.

Katelyn shifted, pulling herself into wakefulness, and Gwen placed a gentle finger against her lips warning her to be quiet. With a nod for an answer, the vampire crawled out of bed, and quickly pulled on a simple white dress from her chest. Making not a sound, and ignoring the wide eyed fear in her lover's face, she moved to the stand of armour, and pulled the sword free of its scabbard on the stand.

Caledfwlch, the ancient sword wielded by Arthur. The leather Gwenhwyfar had wrapped around the hilt had been replaced many times over the centuries, but the blade, so keen and bright when Arthur lived, had not been tampered with and still it gleamed in the dim light of the room. Grasping it firmly, Gwen looked over her shoulder to where Katelyn was holding the sheets of the bed over her breasts in a moment of modesty. There were no words shared between them as Gwenhwyfar moved to the stairs.

Descending into the hall, feet making not a sound with each step on the old stairs, Gwen could hear the sounds of a crackling fire. The glow reached up the walls, and Gwen felt exposed in the light. The fire pits hadn't been used for some time. Who was here? Villagers finally thinking the price of protection was not worth their freedom? Or perhaps a vampire hunter had finally found Gwen's home. Whatever the case, Caledfwlch was ready to spill blood this day, and Gwenhwyfar was more than ready to quench the steel's thirst.

Reaching the foot of the stairs her eyes flicked into the shadows first, looking for hidden attackers; there were none. With gaze flicking towards the source of light, she saw a cloaked figure sitting at one of the tables, looking into the orange and yellow flames, sparks popping into the air and floating about them. Gwenhwyfar raised Caledfwlch, poised to strike down the invader.

"I do not remember your manners being so horrible as this Gwen," a familiar voice said, thick with an accent from the east.

"Elishka?" Gwen asked, lowering the sword so the point touched the ground.

The woman turned and pulled back the hood of her cloak, black hair spilling free. Brown eyes holding a smile still concealed by the cloth wrapped around her face, and her hands resting comfortably on her knees.

"Indeed. The road here is rather long and I needed to sit for awhile. Besides, I did not want to wake you. It is day after all," Elishka said, untying the mask she wore and slipping it into her pocket. Her skin was still a gentle bronze hue, despite the state of undeath she was in. It seemed the touch of being born in the Holy Lands would not leave, even beyond death.

"Wake me you did. Now tell me why you have come courier. I do not recall you ever having made a social visit," Gwenhwyfar said, setting Caledfwlch on the table opposite Elishka, before seating herself on the bench.

"Never in this part of the world. The council is sending out a call for the Clan's Knights. You are one of those knights Gwen, unless you've forgotten in your loneliness. Even if you have, you made the vows, and the council remembers," Elishka said, forming a steeple before her with her fingers.

Gwenhwyfar snorted; she had broken many vows in her days amongst the living. Elishka had only brought up her more recent ones as a sting, and though she didn't let it show, it had hurt.

"I remember. Why are we being summoned?"

"I'm not fully sure myself. The Clan of the Rose is rising in power once more, and are trying to make a claim for land. They are breaking the secret of the Clans. We are already seeing the result, hunters are growing in number and strength. Not to mention that the Church is starting to fund some of these hunters themselves. Vampires everywhere are in danger, and the council is amassing an army to remove the threat of the Rose," Elishka explained carefully, slowly, as if trying to remember all the details. Gwenhwyfar frowned, if the council had not told one of their best couriers the full message, then the need for secrecy must be dire indeed.

Gwenhwyfar knew though, that secrets caused only trouble, and violence.

"Hopefully we can defeat them for good this time," she said after a moment of silence. Despite her words, she knew it would be difficult. She had been reborn into undeath as a member of the Clan of the Rose, as a princess even. As she journeyed through their political world, she discovered horrors and evil. Joining the Clan of the Wolf was the second set of vows she had broken.

"Hopefully. You have two weeks to get to Narvik. I shall see you there... or perhaps not," Elishka said, and with said, donned her cloth covering, and pulled up her hood. With a bow to Gwenhwyfar, she left, walking out into the sunlight. Gwen watched her go with a frown, before looking back at the sword sitting on the table.

Perhaps it would get its blood after all.

* * *

><p>Peter Hook let out a long breath and closed his eyes for a moment. The chill wind blowing across the sands caressed his skin, almost frigid against the sweat on his face. Pulling at the chainmail around his neck, he would have sighed in pleasure at the cool air washing across his chest, if it weren't for the reek that coiled out from under his armour links and white hauberk.<p>

Still, Peter loved the desert nights; the heat was cut away as the sun hid, and it reminded him of his home in Europe. The wide green fields, and the almost mystical forests. He missed it, mostly because it wasn't so fucking hot there.

Turning his head to look along the lines of Christian Crusaders, all dressed in the same white hauberk with the red cross imprinted on the front, chainmail hoods covering their heads for those who could not afford helmets. They hid behind a sand dune, while a few men peeked over top to watch the Saracens in their encampment. The only one in full armour, Lord du Lac, stood just beneath the lip of the dune, visor of his helmet pulled down to hide his face. With one hand he leaned on his sword, while the other held a rose before his face. Peter could only assume that the nobleman was looking at it, examining it. After a moment, he wrapped the plant in a cloth and shoved it beneath his breast plate, even as one of the scouts slid down the dune.

"The commanders have all entered the central tent my lord. They have only a handful of sentries," the man said, his face twisting weirdly with each word due to the scar that had ruined most of his mouth.

Du Lac lifted his sword into the air, the moonlight glinted off the steel, and he began to climb over the dune. Silently, the Crusaders followed him, and Peter went with them. His sword tapped against his leg with each step up the dune, fingers of his right hand gripping his spear tightly, knuckles going white beneath the leather of his gauntlet. The straps of his shield were firm around his forearm, hand open to paw at the sand as he moved over the dune.

There was still no war cry, no challenges, just simple movement. Metal scratching against metal, hundreds of feet shifting through the sand. Moonlight glinting off spear tips and helmets. Peter was looking straight at one of the sentries, not so far away. Was the man blind, or simply dumbfounded at the sight of this raiding party.

Then a yell burst out into the night in the Saracen tongue. A sense of alarm spread through the camp as tired soldiers were awakened from their slumber. This was when the Crusaders charged. Peter yelled as loud as he could, kicking up sand behind him as he lowered his spear and ran towards the heathen bastards.

Archers armed with longbows stood atop the dune and lit their arrows with fire. Their first volley soared through the air, raining fiery death upon the confused Saracens. Fabrics caught alight, horses panicked and struggled against the binds that kept them in place. A few men ran screaming from one tent, their clothing blazing before they jumped into the sand.

Still, soldiers managed to get weapons, and some armour on, moving to defend the encampment. Archers fired quick shots back, but without organization, lacked the lethal effectiveness of the Welsh longbows.

A man beside Peter let out a choking gurgle, grasping the projectile in his throat and trying to stop the blood spurting around the wooden shaft, but collapsing to the desert sands instead. Peter rushed on, there was nothing that could be done for the man.

The Saracens came at them with spears and those wicked curved swords. They shouted something in their foreign tongue, and it sounded like a heathen prayer. The words only stirred the anger in Peter's soul as the two forces clashed. His spear sank into a man's belly, the crimson blood running down the haft looked black as pitch under the night sky.

Peter pushed the man to the ground, watching him cough up his own life essence as he crashed his booted foot into the man's throat, whilst the spear passed through flesh and into the ground beneath. Pushing down with his foot, he pulled on the spear, opening the man's stomach further, spilling entrails across the ground.

Around him, Crusaders slaughtered the unprepared Saracen soldiers. Blood flowed from corpses left in their wake as they moved through the camp, killing everyone who didn't wear the red cross. Servants and serving women were laid low in a splash of gore by Crusader spears and swords.

Peter ducked a high thrust from a spear, battering it aside with his shield, and stabbing upwards into the attacker's chest. The man screamed, and with a crack the spear broke in Peter's hand, another body falling to the blood stained sands. Pulling his sword free he moved on, grabbing a servant girl as she tried to free. His hand had grasped her breast, and he snickered, squeezing. The girl screamed, and scratched at his bared face. Peter screamed as a fingernail raked his eyeball. Half the world seemed to go dark, and his sword plunged through her flesh.

"Rot in Hell heathen bitch," he screamed, kicking her lifeless corpse to the ground. He brought a hand to his face, feeling the blood there, not all of it his. Pain throbbed in his head, like a dull hammer, and all around him, men died.

"Peter... you've looked better," a soldier said with a hoarse voice. All around him the battle had ended, and the Crusaders moved amongst the dead, looting, finishing off the wounded.

"I suppose I have," Peter said, looking up to see his friend Davis.

That wasn't possible, Davis had been killed two weeks ago. Gaze moving all around him, Davis saw Crusader soldiers bending down to feed from the blood of the dead, drinking deep. They were all scarred, and battered, hauberks stained in the blood. Peter recognized some of the faces, men who were all supposed to be dead.

Davis laughed, and Peter backed away, before the sound of clashing steel distracted him. One Crusader was defending himself against one of the dead ones.

"Back devil. Back to Hell where you belong," he yelled, before another came up behind with a mace, and hit the back of the man's skull. Blood and gore burst out everywhere, and the mockeries of Crusader soldiers descended upon him.

"You'll be amongst us soon Peter," Davis growled, and Peter turned to run.

Pain knifed his brain, fear grasped his guts, but he still ran, pulling his sword free. A damned thing jumped from a tent, face smeared with the blood it had been drinking, and growled angrily as Peter, who simply swung his sword at its neck, severing its head clean from its shoulders. Dark blood sprayed from the wound, but Peter kept running, back from where he had come.

A vicious fist hit him in the chest, the force knocking him onto his back, sword flying from his grasp. Laying in the sand, looking up at the stars and moon glaring brightly in the sky, Peter gasped for breath, as Lord du Lac stepped above him, visor raised.

Cold eyes stared down from that pale face, and he wore a smile that revealed fangs not unlike that of a serpent. The demon who had tricked all these men here, who had led them all into bloodshed raised his sword.

"May God strike you down demon," Peter said, coughing as breath came back into his lungs.

Du Lac looked into the sky, as if waiting, before he shrugged, and brought his sword down.


	3. Departure

**Chapter 3: Departure**

Robert Donaldson walked up the hill towards Gwenhwyfar's hall, holding the reins of her beastly horse in one hand. Even Katelyn who had a suspiciously close relationship with the vampire seemed afraid of the creature and walked with Robert between her and the horse. The beast snorted, tugging on the reins slightly as it saw the hall up ahead, and its red eyes seemed to glow with anticipation. The horse had been stabled in the village even before Robert himself was born, and was fed the raw flesh of slaughtered sheep twice a day, rather than the hay kept for the other horses. It was completely unnatural. Rumours said it was centuries old, and every time he saw the thing, Robert could not bring himself to even doubt those words.

A shudder ran up Robert's spine as the black furred monster pulled, even as he struggled to hold it firm. On the horizon, the sky glared in brilliant reds and purples as the sun hid from the oncoming night. Stars were already starting to twinkle in the sky, and Robert had to force his fear down. He never liked the night, always did his business by day; night was for criminals and demons. He was neither.

His father was the village elder, and David would have come up the hill himself if it weren't the fever that had been plaguing him the past week. Whispers were already spreading through the village that within the month, Robert would take his father's place in formality, as he already had in practicality.

The horse snorted again, and looking over, Robert could see a smile spreading across Katelyn's features. They were close to the hall now, and Gwenhwyfar awaited them, dressed in black breeches, and a light brown tunic, in the open doors with arms crossed over her chest, sword sheathed at her hip. Saddle bags, already full lay on the ground by her feet. Robert swallowed, he had never liked dealing with the vampire.

"Adara," Gwenhwyfar called out cheerfully.

The horse pushed ahead, the reins slipping from Robert's hands, though he was happy to be free of the creature. He watched as nearly white hands ran over black fur, and quiet whispers passed from rider to horse. Katelyn ran ahead, almost jumping on Gwenhwyfar, but hanging away because of Adara.

"What if the Vikings attack again?" Robert demanded of the woman who had defended these shores for as long as anyone in the village could remember.

"You will be on your own whilst I'm gone. Set out watches on the coast, request soldiers from Kirkwall," Gwenhwyfar told him, as she lifted a saddle and threw it over the horse's back, earning another nostril born snort.

Robert ran a hand through his thinning gray hair and looked down the hill towards his home. A few torches were lit, beckoning back to his home, where his children slept soundly, and his wife awaited his return. As he looked back towards the vampire, she had finished securing the saddle in place and was tying down the saddlebags, strapping a Welsh longbow and a quiver of arrows to the soft leather. She tugged on them, and nodded when she was satisfied, before turning her gaze back to Robert.

"I expect nothing to happen to Katelyn in my absence. It would be regrettable for you all if her choices should bring unwanted attention her way," Gwenhwyfar informed him.

"I cannot be accountable for the actions of others," he said, knowing full well the mistrust the others held of the woman. Besides the scars left by a monster adorning her neck, there were also the rumours of the unholy affair the two had.

"Oh but you are Robert Donaldson. This is your village, and the lives of everyone within are your responsibility. Even should you deem Katelyn's life not worth while to defend, think of my vengeance when I return. I will ensure blood flows in rivers, while you watch," Gwenhwyfar snarled, stepping forward so her lover could not see her lips pull back, showing off her fangs.

Robert blanched, and dumbly nodded as an answer.

"Then your business here in concluded. Go home to your family," Gwenhwyfar said, and the elder's son did as he was told at a run. Gwenhwyfar and Katelyn watched him go, before turning to each other, whilst Adara let out a whinny of impatience.

"Take me with you. Please," Katelyn pleaded, wrapping her arms around the undead woman, comforted as the embrace was returned.

"I would not put you through that danger. Even if you do not think it now, my road is much more dangerous than awaiting here," Gwenhwyfar said, and bent her head to kiss Katelyn's lips.

Cool fingers ran through chestnut brown hair, and warm hands moved down the muscles of Gwenhwyfar's back. Lips touching, eyes closed, both women enjoyed the intimacy of the moment. Gwenhwyfar broke the moment, and stepped out of Katelyn's arms before moving to Adara, setting one foot in a stirrup.

"I love you," Katelyn said as the vampire hoisted herself into the saddle.

Gwenhwyfar sighed, and cast the woman a sad look. The look alone brought tears to her eyes, and her lips trembled as she braced for the words she knew were coming.

"It was lust Katelyn, nothing more," Gwenhwyfar said, before pressing her feet into Adara's flanks. Mount and rider took off at a gallop to the south.

Katelyn was left behind, watching the woman disappearing into the distance as tears began to run down her cheeks.

* * *

><p>"Let him go heathen," the half drunken soldier demanded, a sword pointed towards Elishka and the choking man she had hostage. The tip wavered as he struggled to retain focus.<p>

"I've told you fool. I am Christian," Elishka said calmly, despite the rope she held that dug into the man's neck, cutting off his breathing. His fingers desperately attempted to free himself. She was very much regretting her decision to remove her mask in this inn. All she had wanted was some wine for the road.

"But ye got the look of a Muslim about you," the first soldier said, taking a step forward.

"John has got himself beaten by a woman," a third guard said with a loud laugh, sword tip digging into the boards of the inn. He thrust his hips forward suggestively, and Elishka rolled her eyes.

"Very well then," Elishka said, and let go of the rope.

The man took a deep gasp of air, but hands quickly grasped the top of his head and his chin. With widening eyes he knew there was nothing he could do to stop his own doom. Elishka snapped his neck, and let the body flop to the floor. The other two soldiers looked down, dumbfounded, unable to completely grasp what just happened as their vision swam.

Elishka pulled out the dagger beneath her cloak in the small of her back, and stepped onto a table and leapt from the wooden platform. The third soldier looked up in time to be tackled to the ground, steel piercing the flesh of his throat. He tried to scream, but could only let out a choked gurgle as blood ran from his mouth and pumped out of the wound in his neck.

Elishka quickly licked her lips, before she snapped her head forward and sank her fangs deep into the wound. Blood washed over her tongue and splashed down her throat and she revelled in the flavour as she felt the guard bleed out beneath her.

"Bitch," the first guard yelled, and Elishka felt a sword plunge through her stomach.

She gasped in intense pain, before a foot to the back send her collapsing to the ground, blade pulling free from her flesh. Quickly rolling to her feet, dark blood staining her clothes, skin and muscle began to quickly knit itself back together before the drunken soldier's astonished eyes.

"Demon! Get back!" he yelled, starting to back away from the creature before him, his comrade's blood running over her lips and down her chin. The other patrons who had only been watching, now screamed in fear. Some ran for the door, fleeing into the night.

Elishka shook her head sadly, and picked up the dead soldiers sword.

"You had your chance to walk away and live. You've sealed your fate," she said, almost without emotion.

The soldier stumbled over a chair, falling to the ground. Elishka pounced, jumping into the air, and pointing the tip of the sword towards the man's chest. Blade punched through chainmail armour and cleaved the man's heart and lung. Elishka pulled the sword free with a spurt of crimson. Blood bubbled from under his armour as the man struggled to breath in his last precious seconds of life.

Elishka watched as the soul left his eyes, before scanning the inn. The only one who remained was the inn keeper, who leaned against the far wall, face pale, eyes wide.

"I do apologize for the mess. I had only intended to drink some wine, but after all this violence I'm in need of something with more... substance," she said, pulling back her lips to reveal blood stained fangs.

The innkeeper screamed as he turned to run, but Elishka hopped over the counter and grasped him before he could make it to the back door. Swinging the heavy set man around, the vampire courier smashed the man's fat face against the counter top. He was almost sobbing now as he spat out blood and broken teeth. Elishka held him against the counter and ran her tongue over his neck.

"Do not be troubled. This will hurt," she said, before tearing viciously into his flesh and drinking deep.

* * *

><p>Stepping out of the roadside tavern, Elishka looked either way down the road. In the distance she could see the lights of Dublin gleaming in the night, where her next contact waited. Bringing her dagger to her mouth, she licked the English soldier's blood from the steel.<p>

"I really hate English," she said to the night, before going to the small stable beside the inn to retrieve her horse.


	4. Kirkwall

**Chapter 4: Kirkwall**

The large stone walls of Kirkwall loomed before Gwenhwyfar, torches lit along the ramparts silhouetted patrolling soldiers, the large oaken gates open wide with guards standing on either side, fists clenching long spears, fur capes draped over their shoulders to protect from the cold. Gwenhwyfar approached with no words, Adara snorting gently sending out plumes of misty breath into the night air. A heavy cloak was pulled tightly around her, though the cold of the Scottish wind did little to affect her, it would help to keep eyes off of her. No one would notice another cloaked traveller amongst the many that came through this port city.

The guards stood straighter as Gwenhwyfar came ever closer, peering through the darkness, at horse and rider. Gwenhwyfar sniffed the air, smelt the blood stirring in the two men's veins. She felt the ache in her fangs, the salvia that wet her mouth, but held it back. The guards eyed the bow tied down atop her saddlebags, and the sword hanging from her hip. The one on the right looked into Adara's eyes, and jumped back a little noting the dull red of those orbs.

"Will there be trouble?" asked the guard on the left, ignoring his partner's reaction.

"I seek passage, that is all," Gwenhwyfar said, pulling back her hood so that the guard may see her face, and the guard squinted into the night.

"Indeed," the guard said eyes glancing to the horse, before reaching up and removing his helmet. In the faint torchlight Gwenhwyfar could see the grey hairs starting to overrule the brown. He nodded to his comrade who gladly took a few steps back.

"I was told you would pass this way. Captain MacDonald wishes to speak with you," he said, before gesturing for her to pass through the gates.

Gwenhwyfar nodded, replacing her hood as she pressed in with her heels and Adara's hooves beat against the dirt path and soon clacked against cobblestone roads. The second guard averted his eyes, leaning away from the passing figure. The city had not changed much in the hundred years since Gwenhwyfar had last stepped foot within her walls. The hovels were still in poor condition and smelt of shit and mildew, the streets strewn with rotten straw, and the noise of a nearby inn overflowing into the streets sounded of drunken sailors and whores. She pressed on, moving past the empty market towards the barracks.

It was made up of three interconnected structures, with an iron fence and gate closing off the central drill square from the remainder of the town. A wooden shack stood just to the side of the gate proper within the small compound, a single guard standing before it, gauntlets tucked under his arm while he warmed his hands over a flickering brazier. As Adara whinnied, the man looked up, and frowned.

"Who are you?" he asked, quickly pulling his gauntlets back on and grasping the spear he had leaning against his shoulder.

"I was told that Captain MacDonald wished to speak with me."

"Still doesn't answer who you are," the guard said, lowering his weapon so the point jutted between two bars of the fence.

"My name is Gwenhwyfar."

The guard stared at her for a moment, then rapped a bell hidden within the shack with his spear. Nothing happened, but the soldier stepped forward and opened the gate, grunting with effort as he pushed wide. Gwenhwyfar nodded to him as she walked within, before noting the archer standing atop the barracks, bow held in one hand whilst the other slipped an arrow back into the quiver on his back.

Adara stopped in the middle of the parade square, and Gwenhwyfar gracefully slid off, feet gently tapping against the roughly laid cobblestone. Her eyes darted between the three buildings. Neither had any distinction as to which was which, it had been a long time since she'd been to any barracks, and armies changed with the ages. She decided the central building, the northern wing, was the dormitories. A single square tower rose up from the roof, a small window looking down across the city, with a faint light struggling to be seen through the glass.

"Stay here. I do not think this will be long," she said to Adara, before stepping off, boots tapping against the ground.

Like a phantom she slipped through the door, silent, moving down the short hall and the closed doors, ignoring the gentle snores coming from within each one. A spiralling staircase awaited her, going up into the tower. Fingertips trailed over a wooden banister, admiring the craftsmanship, before she stepped into a surprisingly large chamber. It instantly reminded her of home, except the bed was smaller and less comforting, a chest laying at its foot. An armour stand stood beside the desk perched beneath the window, a flickering candle sat upon that desk, a man with nearly white hair leaned over parchment as his quill danced, leaving trails of ink in its wake.

Gwenhwyfar made sure to press her foot down with each step to ensure the aging man could hear her, but he did not respond. The vampire began to wonder if the man was deaf, but why would he be up here if he were?

"There has not been one of your kind in Kirkwall for many years now," the man said, his voice was raspy and rough. His head turned slightly, revealing the mottled flesh from scars that only flames could leave.

"Captain MacDonald I presume. You knew I was coming," Gwenhwyfar said stepping closer, even as the man turned his attention back to whatever he was writing.

"I am, and I did. I keep my ear to the ground when it comes to the clans. This town used to thrive with the undead. Until my predecessors drove them out. Still, it has been passed down to each captain, the news of your home in the north of the island," MacDonald said, picking up his quill and wiping the excess ink off the tip, and pushing a stopper into the ink well.

"So then why do you wish to speak with me?"

MacDonald carefully folded the letter he was writing. Silence built in the room as he dribbled hot red wax across the folded over edge, and pressed a stick down on the sticky puddle. The seal of Kirkwall looked up at the captain as he pushed the letter to the side, and finally stood. With some difficulty Gwenhwyfar noted to herself.

"Because you are a vampire, and when vampires are about, people disappear."

"I am simply passing through. I am here for a boat only."

"To Norway. There is a single merchant ship heading that way tomorrow morning. It will not dock at Narvik, but you may be able to convince the captain to drop you off there beyond nightfall. Take this, it will secure your passage," Captain MacDonald said, picking up the freshly sealed letter, and holding it out in crooked hands. The man was nearing retirement.

"Why are you helping me. I could have secured my own passage," Gwenhwyfar said, taking the letter, holding it crisply in her hand.

"Politics. I do not want you in my city. If it were not for your clan, I would have you killed and burned. As it is, I have the safety of the people here to watch out for. Should anyone been found slain by you, and I will know, I will hunt you down creature."

Gwenhwyfar held back a smile at the thought of this old man trying to strike her down, but instead simply nodded and turned, walking back towards the stairs. MacDonald watched her descend, and when she was gone, he sat himself down and let out a long breath of relief.

* * *

><p>Sir Alan Winterfeld watched Lord du Lac ride in through the main gates of Acre, face hidden from the sunlight by that black helmet of his. Most of his soldiers wore garb to cover their faces as well, whether stifling helmets or simple rags wrapped about the face.<p>

"You ever seen him out of his armour? He looks pale as snow," Sir Reynard Laroque said with a laugh.

"I have not. I have however seen how troops sent to fight for him vanish. Our forces shrink ever so slightly with each raid he commits, and his grow," Alan remarked, taking a long swig from the water skin hanging from his belt.

"You are not the only one to notice such things my friend. There are dark rumours floating about Du Lac, and my King is not pleased. He is threatening to pull his support from this crusade," Reynard said, stroking his beard.

"And if he does return to France, will you go with him?" Alan said, turning his attention away from the small parade of soldiers under Du Lac's command.

"I have not yet decided. The priests tell me that I should stay, the lords and advisors say I should leave. After the things we've seen and done here my friend, I am not so sure God cares what I do," Reynard said sombrely.

"It is difficult to wash away sins with blood," Alan said with a snort, before spitting into the dust of the city's streets.

"Do not let too many hear you utter those words. I may be able to protect you from Saracen blades, but against the stab of tongues, I have no shield. This is Acre, these walls have ears," Reynard warned, and Alan nodded, thankful for the advice.

"Regardless, something must be done of Du Lac. His power grows, even as kings grow suspicious. If your Philippe leaves, Du Lac may as well, with a good number of English soldiers," Alan said.

"If not my king, then with Leopold. Richard has slighted the man, and Du Lac apparently has ties to Lithuania. If the Germans depart, then Du Lac may take the opportunity to as well. He does not seem like a religious sort."

"He's up to something, I know he is."

Reynard smiled, and looked about, before stopping his friend. His words were hushed, and deadly serious.

"These walls may have ears, but I have eyes in my purse. We can discover what Du Lac is plotting, even if the kings are too busy squabbling amongst each other to notice," he said.

"Then do it. I move to ensure no more of my men are transferred to Du Lac's command. Meet with me when you have learned something, until then my friend, be at peace," Alan said, clasping hands with his fellow knight.

"It is a shame that we must fight amongst ourselves so, while the Muslims are united against us," Reynard said, breaking the shake, and moving off down the road to the French quarter.

Alan watched him go, and turned his eyes back to where Lord du Lac's men still marched towards some shelter and water. There was something very off about them, and it chilled Alan's soul.


	5. Promises and Fealty

**Chapter 5: Promises and Fealty**

The waves of the sea rocked the ship gently beneath the blue skies and the bright sun that resided there. Wind filled the sails, and men moved about the boat, standing ready for orders. Captain Nathanial stood at the helm, looking out over leagues of open water to the horizon. There was no land in sight, and he felt free. Lifting back his head, the wind breathed over his face and through the full beard he wore in pride. It felt like a lover's caress welcoming him home, and just as well. Despite all the women he had taken to his bed, and all the promises he whispered during sweat filled nights, he always came back to his mistress.

"Captain," came the voice of Erik, the first mate, pulling Nathanial from the attention of his wife.

"What is it?" he asked, opening his eyes still not seeing any sign of land.

"The passenger. She still refuses any food. We are two days into the journey and still she does not eat," Erik said.

"Her eating habits are not my concern, only that I drop her at Narvik. I suggest you ignore her, and pass that along to the men as well," Nathanial said looking down at the deck at the men he commanded.

"I would, except that at night she comes up on the deck. Her presence is making the men nervous."

Nathanial threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh. Erik shook his head and a few of the sailors looked up at the captain before turning back to their own business.

"A woman is making them quake? A woman? Perhaps I should start recruiting again," Nathanial finally said after a moment, a wide smile across his face.

"The men are not thinking she is a woman captain. But a demon from the depths."

Nathanial's humour dissipated, and looking over to his first mate, a man who took very little stock in the words of old tales and superstitions. A man who at the moment did look afraid. Nathanial slapped the wheel before him.

"Take the helm. I'll talk to our guest, and remind her of her place," Nathanial said, stepping back.

Erik quickly took his position, while the captain tapped the hilt of the sword hanging at his belt, and moved down the short flight of stairs to the deck. Sailors nodded in respect at his passing, while he moved to the double doors settled just beneath the helm. Pushing the portals open and stepping inside the small hall Nathanial took a breath, and moved to the room on his right, the guest's quarters.

Inside the woman was kneeling in the centre of the room, a sword laid across her palms as she whispered in an unfamiliar language. The blankets from the bed had been draped across the windows, cutting off the sunlight and plunging the room into the darkness of night. Nathanial frowned and closed the doors behind him, but Gwenhwyfar did not stir.

Moving around her, Nathanial grasped one of the sheets in a tight fist.

"Remove that sheet, and I will kill you," Gwenhwyfar said between tight lips.

"You can try. You should learn that you are a guest on my boat. I will not tolerate any black magic that brings the eyes of demons upon us," Nathanial said angrily, and tore the blanket down.

Sunlight poured in on the salt tinged air that poured through the openings to the outside world. Gwenhwyfar hissed and sprung away from the light, smoke coming from her skin. She spun to the captain and bared her fangs, sword now clutched in her hand, ready to strike. Nathanial stared at her, sunlight framing him in the window as he grasped the second sheet.

"So little you understand. The sun may kill me, but not before I cut your head from your shoulders," Gwenhwyfar snarled.

Nathanial let his hand drop away from the sheet, and move to his sword. He was no stranger to combat, for life at sea was a dangerous one and pirates roamed free in waters that kingdoms could not control with their mighty armies.

"What are you creature?" Nathanial demanded.

"That does not matter. You fulfill your part of the bargain, and you will be rid of me," Gwenhwyfar said tightly.

"I made no deal with you. That letter you carried with you was from the guard captain of Kirkwall, not you. I have a suspicion that if you were to perish out here, MacDonald would not mind in the least," Nathanial said, pulling his blade free, readying himself for combat.

"And in turn his oath does not carry out here to the seas," Gwenhwyfar shot back, standing to her full height. Nathanial licked his lips, feeling nervousness in his gut.

Seeing the smoke still rising from Gwenhwyfar's back, Nathanial raised his arm to the sheet once more. Gwenhwyfar sprung forward, Caledfwlch's point piercing through his arm. He let out a scream as his hand went limp. He could hear shouting above decks, but knew that for the next moment, his life was in his own hands.

He brought his blade around in a wide swing, and Gwenhwyfar jumped back, pulling her own bloodied sword with her, freeing the captain. She stood tall, holding the gleaming blade before her, obviously a warrior trained. Pressing his wounded limb against his side, Nathanial went on the offensive, stabbing forward, but Gwenhwyfar deflected it to the side and followed through with a vicious kick. Nathanial rolled out of the way, biting back a scream as his wounded arm hit the floor.

Quickly rebounding to his feet he glanced once at Gwenhwyfar, then slashed at the blanket nearest him. The blade pulled it from the window, bringing in more sun, which caused Gwenhwyfar to pull back further into the darkness, hiding behind the single sheet remaining, a thin beam of sunlight pushing through the hole she herself had made.

The door smashed open, Erik stood there bewildered, holding a small axe in either hand. He looked between the woman standing in darkness, and his captain. Erik let out a roar and charged towards Gwenhwyfar, moving for a quick kill.

The vampire deftly avoided the first strike, and swung for the following second. Blade met flesh, and blood sprayed across the room as Erik's left hand landed on the floor. Gwenhwyfar kicked him squarely in the chest, knocking him back into the bed. Stumbling, the first mate fell back and rolled onto the floor, grasping at his stump as more sailors rushed in.

Hissing at them Gwenhwyfar stood her ground, grasping the first hand that came towards her, and plunging her blade into the owner's stomach. She dropped him gurgling to the floor, but not before a crossbow bolt plunged into her chest. Pain flared through her, and she lurched backwards.

"Enough!" Nathanial roared, and the sailors stopped, but not before taking a few steps backwards.

Gwenhwyfar quickly pulled the bolt from her flesh and dropped it to the ground and stared at each of the sailors facing her.

"We'll get you to Narvik creature, as the letter said, but never again will you step foot on this ship," Nathanial told her coldly.

"Very well. Now please leave this room, anyone who enters here for the remainder of the trip forfeits their own life," Gwenhwyfar replied rather calmly.

Nathanial grunted and moved out of the room, his men dragging both Erik and the gutted sailor out, leaving behind twin trails of blood in their wake. Nathanial slammed the door shut behind him, closing the vampire into her own room.

"Captain, we could have taken her. Why did ye call us off?" one of the sailors asked.

"Perhaps we could have, but at what cost. I have no desire to be captain of a dead crew out here. If you value your life, or your position on my crew you will do as you are told, and leave this room alone," Nathanial barked.

"Yes captain," came the sullen reply before he stalked off.

Nathanial let out a long sigh as he looked at the blood smeared across the floor boards, and then back at the door to Gwenhwyfar's quarters. It was going to be a long journey to Narvik, and he simply hoped that most of his men survived it.

* * *

><p>Reynard stepped into his private chambers, slamming the door behind him, and grasping the vase full of rich wine off the table beside him. Bringing the clay container to his lips, the French knight drank deep, washing down the dust of Acre. Dropping the vase to shatter across the stone floor, Reynard looked over to his bed in the shadows of the room.<p>

Lying on red silk sheets, was a pale skinned woman, eyes closed, painted lips open. Her blonde hair pooled across the pillows and her dark nipples stood in contrast against the soft curves of her breasts. Licking his lips, Reynard moved towards the bed, unbuckling his belt and letting it fall to the floor, the sword attached clanging against the stone. Pulling off his tunic, the French knight started to climb over the bed, hovering over the naked woman.

His hand slid in something wet, and with a frown, Reynard looked at his palm, now smeared with crimson. Eyes widening and flicking back to the woman, he noticed the hole in the side of her neck, almost blending in with the sheets.

"God in Heaven," he yelped, stumbling out of the bed, landing on his back on the floor.

"I'm afraid Reynard, that even here, in this holy land, you are beyond his help. Perhaps he never did care," a soft voice said from the shadows, touched with arrogance.

Lord du Lac stepped from the shadows, sword held carefully in his hand, blood running over his lips and dripping from his chin. He smiled, it was cold and showed his fangs. Reynard felt a shiver crawl like a spider up his spine as he moved away from the unholy creature standing before him, hand searching desperately for his sword.

"Now, normally I wouldn't feed on a noble. Attracts too much attention you see. However you've been trying to get too close to me my dear friend, and I simply can not have you ruining my plans now," Du Lac said.

"You are no friend of mine demon," Reynard said, fingers finally grasping the hilt of his sword. Before he was able to use it however, Du Lac moved with an unholy speed and a grace not of this world. The creature's foot clamped down on Reynard's wrist, trapping it, and that vicious sword descended.

Reynard screamed in agony as his hand came free, blood gushing from the wound, mixing with the droplets of wine he had dropped. Du Lac merely smiled, and cocked his head.

"Scream, and get their attention. You're death will only help me move things along," he said, and plunged his sword through Reynard's neck.


	6. Keep of Wolves

**Chapter 6: Keep of Wolves**

Gwenhwyfar looked over her shoulder to watch the ship sail off into the distance, the crew in a hurry to leave her behind in their memories. Glancing up towards the bright moon, Gwenhwyfar started moving down the dock towards the small village of Narvik, letting Adara follow closely behind.

A single man holding a torch waited at the end of the dock, wrapped in thick furs to protect him from the falling snow. He bowed as Gwenhwyfar approached.

"My lady, allow me to escort you to the castle," he said in a thick Norse accent, already seeming to know who this visitor was. His breath came out in thick mist through the scarf he had wrapped around his face.

"Very well," Gwenhwyfar stated.

The man turned and started to walk, followed by the vampire and her horse. They moved through the small village of Narvik, the snow crunching beneath their steps. A few faces looked out from windows at the passing pair before quickly closing and a man holding a crossbow at his side leaned in the doorway of the local blacksmith, but that was the only sign of life this late into the night.

They left the village behind and moved along a path which was shown only by the snow drifts on either side and the partially filled footprints along its length. With thick forest on either side of them the pair moved without a word, the only sound their feet and the occasional whinny from Adara.

Gwenhwyfar saw movement out of the corner of her eye, and turning her head slightly noticed a few wolves trailing quietly through the snow, watching the travellers with hungry eyes. The guide put a hand to a sword sheathed at his hip as he noticed the hunters himself, a shiver of nervousness running through his form.

A soft growl came from the forest on the other side, and lowering the hood of her cloak, Gwenhwyfar turned her gaze to see more of the pack stalking them. Dark figures flickering through the shadows between the trees, the glint of inhuman eyes looking for food in the cold of the quickly settling winter.

"They will not attack. It is not deep enough into winter for them to be starving enough yet," the Guide said after a few moments, and Gwenhwyfar nodded, pulling her hand away from Caledfwlch's grip.

Eventually they emerged from the forest, leaving the wolves behind while before them loomed a seemingly abandoned castle. The walls were crumbling and covered in moss killed by the winter cold, and the iron portcullis had fallen apart, its pieces scattered on the gatehouse floor, rusting amidst the snow strewn stone. Passing into the courtyard, snowflakes gathering in her black hair, Gwenhwyfar noted the footprints in the fresh fallen powder gather about her. The tracks had all bled together into a single path, moving through the ill kempt courtyard and past the aging well, and into the surprisingly well kept, but forebodingly windowless keep.

Moving towards a set of high oaken doors, with the likeness of wolves carved into either one, the guide raised his empty fist and hammered on the entrance. Adara shuffled in the snow, while Gwenhwyfar simply stood with arms at her sides.

The doors swung inwards, and the smell of horse rushed out to greet them. Two men, clad in simple leather and furs, had pushed the doors open and ushered the travellers within. Once within the guide began to rub his arms revelling in the warmth as the gatekeepers closed the doors.

"We will take your horse to the stables my lady. You are expected in the great hall, you belongings will be taken to your room immediately," one of the gatekeepers said at a nod from the guide.

The respect and manners reminded Gwenhwyfar of a time long past. She closed her eyes for a moment in memory, but quickly crushed them down before they took hold. There would be time for that later.

Gwenhwyfar nodded, and proceeded further into the keep, past the entrance hall that led to the Stables and servants quarters, and to the large doors that led into the great hall of the Clan of the Wolf. The doors were more ornate than the ones leading into the keep itself, made of oak and strengthened with gold rather than steel or iron. It would have made even some of these modern kings, or even the old Romans blush.

Pushing them open, Gwenhwyfar stepped into a long room lit by torches sit in iron sconces on the walls, and chandeliers dangled from the ceiling. Two long tables ran most of the room's length, joined at the end by a much shorter, but nearly identical copy. Chairs were settled alongside, all empty. Dust covered most of the surfaces, save some spaces used by the human servants of the keep.

At the far end of the hall stood a man in rich red, long blonde hair tied back in a pony tail, goblet held lightly in his hand as he looked up at one of the many tapestries that hung from the walls of the room, this particular one of a wolf biting the head off a rose, a few streaks of blood dripping from where the beast had been pricked by the rose's thorns.

"I do wonder if this was meant as a warning, or a reminder," Amadeo Castrogiovanni said loud enough to be heard across the hall, bringing his goblet to his lips.

"More than likely it's both," Gwenhwyfar said sharply, walking past the tables, travelling boots tapping on the stone.

Amadeo turned, and gave an extravagant bow for his fellow vampire once she was close. Standing once more, his cape falling over the one shoulder it was pinned to, obscuring some of the fine workmanship of his tailor. Gwenhwyfar simply nodded in return.

"A pleasure as always to see you my lady," Amadeo said with a charming smile.

"That silver tongue of yours spins lies as thick as pig shit. You hate me and would only be up here in Narvik if you were threatened or you could turn a profit. The question remains however, why do you wish to speak with me?" Gwenhwyfar asked of the Italian merchant.

"Always to the point, and never one to wear a mask. Perhaps you should have," Amadeo said acidly, his smile growing as Gwenhwyfar stiffened, eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Did you call me here just to insult me then vulture?" Gwenhwyfar demanded.

"Why would I wish to ever speak with you, even to insult you?" Amadeo said, baring his fangs.

"That's enough," A harsh Germanic voice called out, causing both vampires to turn, seeing a tall muscular man wearing a simple cloth tunic and breeches, walk through one of the side doors. An axe hung from a simple loop on his belt on either hip, his blonde hair tied in two braids that laid over his shoulders, the tuft of a beard growing on his chin and upper lip.

Blue eyes narrowed at the merchant, and sighed and turned, walking towards one of the doors, muttering 'Whore Queen' under his breath, making Gwenhwyfar ball her hands into tight fists.

"He is not worth the anger Gwenhwyfar. Best to save the fury for the battlefield," the German said, leaning against the table and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Thank you Jurgen, now can I assume it was you that wished to meet with me here?" Gwenhwyfar said, after taking a moment to relax.

Jurgen Backenstede simply nodded, before reaching down to a rolled up piece of paper stuck in his boot. Spreading it out on the table, Gwenhwyfar could see it was a map of the local area, drawn in black charcoal. The keep was a square, and the village was a simple 'X', while the forests were mostly shaded in. However, it got the point across, and Jurgen jabbed his finger at a circle drawn overtop one of the spots in the forest.

"Some of our scouts have found soldiers searching the woods, their shields bearing the mark of the Rose. Their clan has always known we were around here, but never exactly where. Nor have they cared. The fact that they are scouting us has some worry on the council," Jurgen informed his friend.

"Where are our soldiers, why have these scouts not been dealt with?" Gwenhwyfar demanded.

"Much has changed since you have left. We have very little human forces loyal to our clan, and our clan itself grows weaker. To the East, the Rose grows. To the south, the Dragon is spreading. And us, here in the north, pull back into the tundra, our knights scattered across the nations. A proper council has not been held in fifty years," Jurgen told her, and Gwenhwyfar let out a long breath, digesting the information with a frown.

"I will deal with these scouts then. How long until dawn?" Gwenhwyfar asked, examining the map closely to get her bearings.

"A few hours yet. I'll go with you, I know this area well enough, and together we'll still be able to move quick enough to get back before sunrise," Jurgen said.

"Agreed. Meet here with a half hour."

Jurgen smiled, and clapped his fellow warrior on the back before moving towards his room. Gwenhwyfar returned the smile, it would be good to feed.

* * *

><p>Alan watched as the French marched out of the city, their banners sagging without any breeze to display the colours proudly. The soldiers did not march to war, but instead followed their king, on the road home. The body of Reynard amongst them.<p>

Drinking deep from the water of his wineskin, Alan stood on the walls of Acre, and finally turned his back on the retreating Christians. Talk of assassins, and traitors within Acre had everyone on edge, the discovery of Reynard's mutilated body had been the tipping point that drove the French away.

Attaching his wineskin back to his belt, Alan walked along the walls, wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his hauberk. As he looked down into the stables, he saw soldiers dressed in Lord du Lac's heraldry, and the English knight frowned.

Du Lac was not leaving, nor his silent soldiers. Alan wasn't sure what to make of it, seeing as the Lord's king was currently astride a horse moving back home. Perhaps it was because most of his soldiers seemed to be English these days, though it was hard to tell with them all wearing helmets, and never speaking. Word was that all who entered Du Lac's service had a vision from God, and all became holy warriors.

Alan knew it wasn't true, just barracks rumours. There was something sinister behind this army growing with each battle, and Reynard had gotten close. That's what Alan believed, but with so many eyes and ears about, he wasn't able to say anything, or investigate on his own.

"Alan?" a hearty voice called out from along the battlements.

Alan looked up, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, to see his friend, Sir Garret Thomas, fully armoured moving towards him.

"I'll never get used to this fucking heat... Alan, we're heading out tonight. Get your men together, we're going out to strike at a Saracen caravan," Garret said, a smirk across his face.

"Who else is going?" Alan asked, and the smiled dropped from Garret's face.

"We're supporting Du Lac's forces," Garret said solemnly, betraying his own thoughts on the mysterious French lord.

"He killed Reynard Garret, I'm sure of it," Alan whispered, and for a moment, he thought the other knight was going to punch him.

"You shut you're fucking mouth, because if you're right, you'll be joining him. We'll talk about this on the road," Garret said, and with that promptly turned and left Alan standing alone on the wall.


	7. Scarlet Snow, Crimson Sand

**Chapter 7: Scarlet Snow, Crimson Sand**

The room Gwenhwyfar stepped into was fairly small, but lavishly furnished. Kicked off her boots near the door, her feet padded across thick, plush carpets the colour of a rich wine. She pulled off her cloak and tossed it onto the large bed covered in dark goose down blankets and pillows. She moved to her bags, carefully set in the far corner of the room beside a sturdy chest of ash wood.

She began to pull out blackened pieces of plate armour, setting them aside for later, before finally finding what she wanted. An old set of leather armour she taken care of over the long years since she'd worn it when she was a scout in her father's army, fighting against the Saxons. It was light, and didn't cover much skin, but it allowed her freedom of movement.

Peeling off her travelling clothes, tossing them without a care towards the bed, she began to pull on the tight leather, sliding up over her thighs, when the door softly opened. Gwenhwyfar turned her head to notice a pretty young woman in a simple wool dress with a gray scarf wrapped around her neck walk cautiously into the room. She kept her eyes towards the floor, nervous, though Gwenhwyfar wondered if it was because she was a vampire, or because she was half naked.

She began to speak in Norwegian, but Gwenhwyfar had never learned the language and said simply: "I don't understand."

"I am sorry my lady. I should have awaited your summons to enter," she said in French then, apparently not understanding Gwenhwyfar's English.

"Who sent you up here?" the former queen asked.

"Elder Asgier my lady. He wishes to welcome you back to the clan home, and offers me for your needs," the woman said softly, removing the scarf from her neck and opening a few buttons that ran down the front of her dress.

Gwenhwyfar licked her lips at the show of cleavage, but also the gentle slope of the woman's slender neck, covered in faint pink scars from previous feedings. Reaching out, the vampire gently ran her fingers over the woman's cheek, a gasp at the cool touch escaped her lips. Gwenhwyfar smiled, standing so very close to the woman, whose breath washed over the bared skin of her chest. Leaning in the vampire could smell the salt on her skin, the blood coursing through her veins. The woman's heart pounded in her breast, a moan spilling forth as she felt Gwenhwyfar's fangs brush against her flesh.

Without warning, Gwenhwyfar pulled away, moving back to her belongings. The woman stood where she was for a moment, before sitting herself on the bed, her face flushed. Looking about the room in confusion for a moment, her eyes finally settled on the noble woman kneeling half naked in the corner, pulling a glass decanter from a bag.

Inside was a thick blue paste, and despite the swift rejection, the woman stared in curiosity as Gwenhwyfar opened the bottled and poured some across her open palm. Slowly, she began to draw swirls and designs across her pale skin. The woman didn't recognize any of the elegant blue markings, but she didn't ask, afraid to interrupt the ritual.

When she finished, Gwenhwyfar replaced the top on the decanter, and smeared the remaining woad dye across her breasts. She stood and held out her arms, now almost barbaric with the blue swirls running up her flesh. Feeling it dry, as the woman watched, Gwenhwyfar didn't move an inch.

After a few minutes the woman started to get up, thinking that the noble would stay like that the rest of the night. Her sudden movement to pull on her surprisingly revealing leather cuirass actually startled the woman, who stood stock still, watching the vampire slip a quiver full of arrows over her shoulder and pick up a bow.

"The Welsh make some of the best bows in the world. Certainly the best longbows," Gwenhwyfar said, running her fingertips over the smooth wood before tying a string to either tip of the weapon, and pulling it back slightly to test it. A toothy grin spread across her face, and the servant licked her dry lips.

Wrapping a belt around her waist, Caledfwlch now sheathed at her hip, Gwenhwyfar finally turned to regard her guest, and moved over to her, dark hair framing her features as she eased the woman down onto the bed, straddling her clad in war gear.

"Wait here for me dear, and I'll give you a night to remember," the noble said, leaning down and slowly running her tongue over the woman's neck.

As suddenly as it had all happened, Gwenhwyfar was leaving the door, leaving the woman laying alone on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

* * *

><p>Through the shadows of the trees and over the white powdery snow, the two moved like wolves in the night. The true beasts ran along with them, sensing a meal to come as the famine of winter closed in tighter with each passing day.<p>

Their feet made no sound as they ran, their weapons sheathed, hiding the glimmer of steel from the bright face of the moon.

Without warning, Gwenhwyfar stopped, holding up a tight fist holding her longbow against the ground. Jurgen kneeled beside her, following her gaze through the trees to the vibrant glow of a fire, pushing back the darkness of the night. Voices drifted on the wind, as shadows flickered across the forest.

The two vampires exchanged a quick glance, but said not a word as they moved closer, each with an arrow laid against their bows. Carefully they approached the camp, centuries of experience making them as phantoms.

Around the fire sat five men wearing light leather armour adorned with heavy fur to stave off the bitter cold. Only one had a sword, sheathed at his hip and sticking into the snow, their spears leaned against the logs they sat on and their shields rested against their bodies painted with a red rose. Two more men were already resting in crude deer skin tents, opened towards the fire, their gear nestled by their heads.

Their apparent leader with the sword raised his eyes from the smile and stared into the forest towards Gwenhwyfar and Jurgen, and lifted his lip in a snarl. Even at this distance, Gwenhwyfar could see the fangs set in his jaws, and stuck her arrow in the snow, careful not to make a sound as she drew a specially crafted silver arrow from a sheath in her boot. There was a slight groove carved into the arrowhead, with nestled carefully in it, secured with thin cord, was a small vial of pure garlic.

Raising her bow as the Rose Clan vampire began to stand, Jurgen drew his own bow back. The two kneeled in shadows, unseen, the strings of their bows brushing their ears. The scouts in the camp were starting to get restless, nervousness plain on their features as they saw the unease in their leader.

Gwenhwyfar released the arrow, shortly before Jurgen. The first arrow struck the vampire in the chest, slicing through leather and flesh before piercing his heart. He let out an unholy scream of pain as the garlic vial was crushed by his own body, coursing through his blood. The second arrow hit one of the scouts through the neck severing the arteries within and poking through the flesh.

"God protect us," one of them yelled as the survivors scrambled for their gear while the vampire tore the arrow from his chest, gasping in agony as blood spurted from the wound. He soon joined his human follower face down in the snow, no longer holding the gift of undeath.

Two more arrows cut through the night, striking down another two men who grasped at the arrows sticking from their flesh, blood weeping around the wooden shafts. The final woken man stood by the fire with shield and spear in hand, whirling around trying to find the source of the arrows, while the two sleeping men stirred in their cots disturbed by the short screams.

The final standing man was cut down as an arrow cut into his chest, and another through his eye. Without a sound he slumped to the scarlet stained snow, and was still.

The two sleeping scouts emerged from their tents, grasping short swords as they looked at the bloodbath before them. Fear filled their eyes, and they startled at the sound of wolves howling in the forest, coming from all about them. Dark eyes watched them from between the trees, as mist poured from beastly maws. One of the creatures emerged from the wood line, moving with the grace of a predator, watching the two survivors as it approached the corpses of their friends.

He heard his friend let out a muffled scream, and turning saw a blonde man grasping him, biting deep into his neck, trails of blood running over the exposed skin and under his armour.

"God have mercy," one muttered, before he felt cold hands grasp him, and soft lips brush against his ear.

"You'll find out soon enough," Gwenhwyfar whispered, before her fangs sank deep into his flesh, and his blood filled her mouth.

The predators feasted well beneath the light of the moon.

* * *

><p>Beneath the dark sky filled with millions of shimmering stars, the sand almost looked white, like bones ground into a fine dust. Alan could believe though, that the sand was indeed the skeletons of the warriors who had fought and died in these cursed lands. He had difficulty seeing what was so holy about this place, it seemed God had forsaken it. Those thoughts never left his lips, he had no wish to be condemned by the mortals who claimed to speak for the heavenly father.<p>

A rider trotted up next to Garret and Alan, wearing the light leather of a scout, but Alan recognized him as Curtis, the scout commander. Without his helmet Alan could see the beard growing across his jaw. Guiding his mount in close to the two knights Curtis leaned in to Garret, though Alan was able to hear every word.

"Rearward scouts spotted some Saracens behind us. Not many, about ten or so, not bothering to hide themselves. One was carrying a white banner. I think they want to talk," he informed them.

The light of the desert moon was bright enough that Alan could see Garret's frown clearly. He lifted the visor of his helmet and scratched at his chin out of habit. Pale eyes turned towards Alan, and he gestured with his head, not taking his gauntleted hands from the reins.

"Alan, take some men and go check it out. We'll continue towards the rendezvous with Du Lac," he said.

Alan nodded, and turned his horse around, pointing out a few men-at-arms on horseback who pulled out from the column to join him. As the rest of the soldiers continued their march, Alan quickly explained the situation as Curtis moved to join them, looking back towards where his scouts awaited.

With hooves kicking up small clouds of dust, Alan, Curtis and the six soldiers rode back. It wasn't long before the rest of the soldiers were fading into the distance, and Alan noted a scout standing on the dune running beside them to make himself visible to his fellow Christians.

Not far ahead, a small group of men silhouetted against the sky. The shape of their helmets gave them away instantly as Saracens. One stood before the others, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, another beside him holding a white banner above their heads, clearly seen.

"I don't like this," Curtis said, spitting into the sand.

"No, but let's see what they have to say. Your scouts have weapons trained on them?" Alan asked, glancing over to the scout commanded.

"They have crossbows, and if they've not had their throats slit on the other side of these dunes, then yes, they'll have weapons trained on these men," Curtis replied.

"Then lets hope this isn't a trap," Alan said, digging his heels into his horse's flanks and starting forward.

As he got close enough to start seeing the faces of his enemy, Alan noted that they all carried spears, but none had a shield. This meeting was not an ambush, they really did want to talk. With a frown, Alan dismounted his horse, and stepped towards the man standing in front.

"So what would a heathen like you, want with an infidel like me?" Alan said, holding back a smirk at the discomfort he saw in the others at his blunt words. He was surprised they could all understand him. Still, the man before him merely smiled in response.

"Survival. It is plain as that. I am called Abdul-Salaam," the man said, nodding his head ever so slightly.

"Sir Alan Winterfeld... what is this about survival?"

"I am sure you are aware Sir Winterfeld, that a certain lord within your ranks is not entirely as he seems. I'm sure you know the name Du Lac," Abdul-Salaam said quietly, and the words sent a chill through Alan's blood.

"What do you know?" Alan demanded.

"He is an unholy monstrosity, sent here by neither your God, nor mine. Even now he plans on destroying your column of soldiers. There was no caravan, it's a trap to gain him more followers from the corpses of the slain."

Alan looked back at the mounted soldiers, and waved Curtis forward. The scout uneasily moved closer to the Saracens, and kept his gaze on Alan.

"Go back to the column, warn Sir Garret that it's a trick. We've been betrayed."

"My lord... can we trust them?" Curtis asked, flicking his gaze towards Salaam.

Alan shook his head gently, then shrugged. He looked back at Salaam and pointed at him with a chainmail clad finger.

"Should I find you were lying to us, I will hunt you down," Alan promised.

"No need my friend. He will find us first, if you have any desire to save your comrades, ride now," the Saracen bid, and Curtis let out a long breath before turning and galloping back towards the column.

"We must unite my friend, against a common foe that would drain all holiness from this land," Salaam said, and Alan was reminded of his own musings earlier in the night.

Even as the screams reached his ears from across the desert.


	8. The Council

**Chapter 8: The Council**

The heat of her skin was intoxicating. The rise and fall of her breasts as she let her breath in and out slowly was enchanting. The sheets fell over her hips gracefully, hiding her legs from view, but Gwenhwyfar had been between them not fifteen minutes earlier.

Arya smiled sweetly, turning over onto her side, blonde hair framing her soft features, blue eyes looking at the noble woman she shared a bed with. Gwenhwyfar returned smile, running fingers down the servant's neck and over her breasts. Arya's lips parted gently, eyes fluttering closed as Gwenhwyfar soaked in every second of this intimate moment.

Cupping the servant's breast, Gwenhwyfar sidled closer to her feeling a shiver run up her spine as the other woman let out a soft moan. Arya pressed herself against the vampire, lips tracing a soft trail down the noble woman's neck to the gentle slope of her shoulder. Gwenhwyfar bit her lower lip, feeling hands run over her flanks, kisses rolling over the swell of her breast before teeth trap a sensitive nipple.

As Gwenhwyfar let a moan of lust spill out into the room, Arya flicked her tongue over the bud clamped in her mouth feeling it stiffen under the attention. With a smile Gwenhwyfar couldn't see through closed eyes, Arya moved further down, fingertips ghosting over cool skin, warm kissed running over the noble's flat stomach, over a scar gained centuries before. With fingers running through the servant's hair, Gwenhwyfar eased Arya further down, her legs parting gently as the other woman settled between them, the kisses sinking her further down.

As Arya's tongue gently ran along Gwenhwyfar's womanhood, the vampire arched her back, letting out another low moan, a hand running along her own body as she was explored most intimately. Arya began to hungrily lick at the vampire's sex, drawing more moans of lust.

The chamber door opened, as Elishka walked in without warning. Arya let out a yelp, jumping up and grabbing at the sheets to conceal her nudity. Cut off unexpectedly from her euphoria, Gwenhwyfar gave the intruder an irritated glare, before noting the bundle tucked under Elishka's arms, as Arya huddled at the edge of the bed, sheets pulled up over her breasts.

"What do you want?" Gwenhwyfar demanded.

"The council has been called together, your attendance is expected. Here put something decent on," Elishka said, tossing the bundle onto the bed, revealing it to be a rather expensive looking dress of black and crimson.

Gwenhwyfar lifted the dress, feeling the soft dyed linen beneath her fingers, before coming to portion that covered her torso, and finding it made of firm leather with crimson laces running up the back. Despite herself, Gwenhwyfar raised an eyebrow and looked up at Elishka, whilst behind her Arya pulled on her own clothing to hide herself a look of confusion of her face, unable to understand the English words.

"It's a style some tailor made in France. It never caught on, but Lord Kessler seems to think you may like it," Elishka said simply as Gwenhwyfar pulled the dress on, slipping her arms down the loose sleeves, her hands completely free in the wide cuffs. Elishka moved up behind Gwenhwyfar and grasped the lacings.

"The most unfortunate part of this horrid design, is that you require another to get behind you and tighten it," Elishka said, pulling the garment tight, pushing Gwenhwyfar's breasts together. Arya glanced over, and the corner of her lips twisted up.

Gwenhwyfar frowned, adjusting her breasts beneath the dress until she was comfortable.

"That thing seems such a mockery of modesty. There's hardly anything I can't see. Regardless, we're wanted down in the council chambers," Elishka said in disgust before turning and moving back towards the door.

Gwenhwyfar turned to look at Arya, giving her a coy smirk before entering the hallway and closing the door behind her.

* * *

><p>The two descended into the cold darkness beneath the castle. Cracked stone walls were covered in ice, and torches set in iron sconces flickered faintly, so close to extinguishing. Elishka walked before Gwenhwyfar, neither speaking as they approached the doors nestled in this underworld. Both could feel the unnatural chill in the air, could feel ice on their skin.<p>

Elishka pushed the doors open, and the two women stepped inside a round chamber ringed with stone chairs carved into the wall, all looking in towards a large pit of blue flame. Facing the door was a large throne, wolf heads carved into the arm rests and the back, arching over a solitary figure clad in thin robes.

Elder Asgier stared at the two newcomers with unblinking eyes, his leathery skin drawn tight against his bones, ears elongated and pointed. He raised a skeletal hand, and gestured to two empty seats with pointed claws without a word, the fire flaring as he moved.

Both Gwenhwyfar and Elishka bowed before the elder before taking their seats, the fire calming as Asgier's hand fell back to the armrest. Gwenhwyfar's eyes darted about the room, finding herself in the company of about ten other vampires of her clan. She noticed Jurgen amongst the gathered, and recognized others as warriors of some form. So this was to be a council of war.

A well dressed man stepped out before the council, bowing to the elder. Gwenhwyfar noticed Elishka twitch slightly at the man's appearance; this must be her maker, Lord Von Kessler. His oiled and tied blonde hair, and perfectly trimmed beard instantly reminded Gwenhwyfar of her own maker, and she instantly despised the man. She also hated wearing this dress knowing it came from him.

"Fellow knights of the Wolf. We are gathered here to discuss grave matters," Von Kessler began, and again Gwenhwyfar glanced over to Elishka, wondering when she had gained the title of knight.

"In the east, as the humans fight over land and Gods, the Rose is becoming a weed that must be plucked out. They are toying with the very nature of our kind and calling it science," he continued, and someone stood up with a bow towards Asgier before speaking.

"Science should be left to the ever curious humans. What do they hope to claim through questioning our gift?" the noble man said before sitting once more.

"That is the question. They are converting humans into ghoulish monstrosities. Shadows of our own kind who seek only to tear and rend and do their bidding and feast on flesh. They are poised to strike against the kingdoms of humanity, and stake their own claim and set themselves as Gods with an army of blood thirsty angels at their beck and call," Von Kessler said, punctuating each word with a gesture of his hand.

At this, Asgier lifted his hand, gesturing towards Von Kessler's empty seat. The lord bowed deeply, moving back to his chair, before the elder rose slowly, the flames in the pit flaring brightly.

"What Von Kessler says is truth. Already, outside the walls of Antioch, one called Lancelot du Lac is turning crusading soldiers into a monstrous army, using the war and hate to move amongst them unrevealed. It will not be long before he makes his move on the holy cities, using their dead against them. I have called this council to wage the first war between clans since the era of the Romans," Asgier said, his voice like gravel as it left his lips, but everyone heard it like silk passing over their minds.

As he spoke though, Gwenhwyfar's back stiffened at the mention of Lancelot; her maker. The one who pulled her from the path of honour. The one who took advantage of her love for the kingdom, and in the end her act of betrayal had torn Arthur's heart asunder, and the kingdom had fallen to the Saxons. Still she listened to the elder, unable to escape his words that wormed inside her skull.

The elder went on, speaking of raising troops on the journey east, of attacking the castles and fortresses of the Clan of the Rose. While he spoke, he hardly moved, save small gestures of his head. Finally he stopped, his eyes turning to face Gwenhwyfar, seeming to bore into her soul.

"And you, lady Gwenhwyfar, shall strike against Lancelot in the holy land. Strike him down, get your revenge. Regain your honour," he said, all eyes of the council turning in her direction.

"Yes my lord," Gwenhwyfar stated as calmly as she could.

* * *

><p>Alan walked amongst the dead, sword clenched at his side. He pulled his helmet from his head, forgetting it in the sand as he shuffled amongst the mutilated corpses, all of them wearing the uniform of the Lionheart. There were no others. Curtis looked amongst the bodies for survivors in vain. His lips moved in silent prayer, fingers crossing his form and closing the eyes of any who still had them. With empty eyes the scout commander gathered weapons from the fallen and strapped them to his horse.<p>

"My God," Alan muttered, eyes flicking from one torn body to the next, finally settling on a spear driven into the ground. Garret's head was driven onto the blade, blood smeared down the shaft, the man's mouth agape in death. A buzzard perched on his scalp, pecking at his remaining eye.

"Get away from him," Alan yelled, flailing his sword at the vulture. The buzzard let out a squawk and took off into the air, tearing the eye from Garret's socket and joining its fellow carrion eaters to jeer at the men who disturbed their feast.

Falling to his knees, sword falling from his hands, Alan pounded on the ground, sorrow and rage clashing within him. Before him, the decapitated body of another friend was slumped against the spear. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looking up, saw Salaam standing above him.

"Now is not the time to grieve. Now is the time to take up arms and destroy the evil which is doing this to both your people and mine," the Saracen warrior said calmly.

He moved to stand before the desecrated body of Garret, blocking it from Alan's view, and held out his hand. Alan clasped it firmly, letting this man who should have been his sworn enemy, help him to his feet.

"Together then," Alan said, pulling back his shoulders and not releasing Salaam's hand.

"Together, we shall fight the true holy war," the Saracen said.


	9. The Gathering Calm

**Chapter 9: The Gathering Calm**

The council had been dismissed, and the knights had left to prepare for their journeys east. Gwenhwyfar and Elishka stayed behind, now kneeling before the elder, who sat in his throne of carved stone, expressionless face looking down at the two knights bowed before him.

"A former queen and an assassin. A traitor and a run away. It is quite the pair that you two make, and now members of the Clan of the Wolf. The task I have given you is of utmost importance, for I believe that an elder of the Rose is assisting Lancelot in the human Holy Lands," he said, voice hardly above a whisper.

"How can just us two defeat an elder my lord?" Elishka asked, head bowed before Asgier.

"Do not think the humans will let the crimes committed against them go unpunished. The greatest armies of the world are already in that desert, waiting to thrust cold steel into flesh. You must bring the reckoning of the Wolf, while the others wage war."

"Then it will be done," Gwenhwyfar said simply, before rising alongside her companion, ready to leave the chamber.

"I have arranged transport for you across the sea, with Amadeo's merchant ships. Leave as soon as you can, and show the Rose the fury of the Wolf."

* * *

><p>Alan lifted his wine skin to his lips, and felt the last drops of water trickle down his throat. With a curse he strapped the leather pouch back to his belt and continued to ride across the sands beneath the glow of the desert moon.<p>

"The camp is not far. You will be free to take whatever provisions you need. Keep in mind however that our resources are finite," Salaam said, riding beside him.

Alan simply nodded, before glancing over his shoulder. Curtis was behind him, his horse trudging through the sand, laden down with the weapons from the battlefield. The scout captain didn't even acknowledge the knight, he simply stared ahead, his back stiff. The other surviving scouts glanced about nervously, their fists tightened around the reins of their mounts, whilst around them the Saracen soldiers tried to march without looking up at their new allies.

It was insane; that was all Alan could think to himself. Two bitter enemies siding with each other to stop an unholy menace stalking Christian and Muslim alike in the holy lands.

The group steered into a narrow canyon, the smooth rock walls on either side blocking out the moonlight. Alan noticed a man with a bow looking down at him from above, face beneath his turban unseen in the darkness.

"The Afghans. They came here searching for the walking dead, after many of their people were killed in the desert," Salaam said, noting where Alan's eyes continued to look.

"Afghans?" Alan asked, watching the shadowy figure vanish from sight.

"Yes. I admit to not knowing much about their homeland myself. But the ones here are simple nomads who have come to aid us. They are good with a bow, and move quiet as shadows."

"Great, heathen ghosts," Curtis muttered from behind the two.

"It is not the spirits of my people you should fear. But the bodies of everyone's dead."

Curtis mumbled something darkly before going quiet once again. They rode and marched in silence save the clink of their armour with each movement, and the soft whiney of the horses. Within a few minutes however, the walls started to spread out, and two flags were stuck in the ground, the fabric as still in this windless night as the guards standing beneath the banners.

"This is our camp," Salaam said.

"Seems small. Reports said Saladin's army was massive," Alan said, glancing back at Curtis who merely nodded.

"We are not part of the army out here. We are on our own. Come I have something to show you," Salaam said as they strode past the guards into the camp.

There were only a few dozen tents about the small clearing, and no one had lit any fires in an attempt to keep their position hidden. It was quiet, and there were very few people about. Alan assumed the rest of the soldiers were sleeping.

Reaching the centre of camp, a few soldiers came to take the horses. Salaam dismounted and said something to them in Arabic, and Alan followed suit. Curtis and the other scouts seemed hesitant, but eventually did the same. The marching soldiers dispersed amongst the camp, but Salaam beckoned for the Christians to follow him to another tent with two guards posted.

"What is it you're showing us?" Alan asked walking alongside the Saracen.

"Our enemy," he said simply pushing aside the flaps and entering the darkness of the tent.

Alan heard something moving against the back wall before it went deathly quiet. The smell of rotting meat filled his nostrils as he heard his new comrade striking flint until a torch flared to life. Flicking light pushed back the shadows, revealing a man in the heraldry of Du Lac chained to two separate posts against the back wall. His tabard was stained with dried blood and his form was slumped in death. A burlap sack had been pulled over the soldier's head.

"What is this?" Alan demanded, reaching for his blade.

"Still your hand," Salaam said reaching out and pulling the bag free.

The man's face had started to rot away, the lips and gums pulled back in decay to reveal broken and yellowed teeth. An eye was torn out and his skin was cracked open, revealing the glimmer of bone beneath. An arrow was still lodged in the man's neck, the shaft broken off near the dried flesh.

Alan was about to pull his blade free, about to scream treachery, when the man's remaining eye opened and the ghoul let out an ear piercing screech.

* * *

><p>The troubadour playing in the corner had a long way to come if he wished to play in any courts. To the drunken patrons of the nameless tavern however, he was more than skilled enough. As his fingers plucked at his lute, struggling to find the right notes, his voice cracking as he tried to sing, those deeper into the cups overpowered his soft voice with lilting and vulgar voices.<p>

Andrzej ignored it, simply content alone at his table to drink his ale and sop up his greasy stew with stale bread. No one bothered him, though he wondered if that had as much to do with the sword and crossbow sitting carefully by his side as their own courtesy.

Pain flared in one of his teeth on the right side of his jaw as he bit into the bread, and he let out a quiet curse drowned out by the noise of the inn. He probed at the pain with his tongue for a moment before letting out another low curse in Polish and dragging the bread through the stew on his plate, picking up thin strings up meat.

When the door opened, letting in the night air, no one took notice. A cloaked man made his way through the crowd, pulling his brown robes tight around his form, before finally making his way to Andrzej's table. One of the two serving girls working, both presumably the thin emaciated inn keep's daughters, came up to the table as the man sat himself opposite Andrzej.

Her young face was scarred from acne and her gray dress was spotted with stains. From what Andrzej could only guess, but he assumed she did a little work in the rooms for rent above.

"Another mug," he said in broken Italian, and his guest simply shook his head before pulling back his cowl to reveal a closely shaven head. The kind of shave that only the rich or monks had, and this man did not appear to have much gold to his name.

As the girl wandered back to the bar Andrzej turned his attention finally to the bald man, who was now fidgeting with a wooden cross between his fingers.

"Are you Andrzej Mikula?" the stranger asked cautiously.

For a moment there was only the sound of the tavern, as the Polish mercenary watched the man opposite him, trying to get a read on him. He moved the lump of now soggy bread to the other side of his mouth to try and reduce the pain in his tooth.

"I am. What do you need?" he finally said.

"I am Brother Davide. I've been sent here to find you and hire your... services," the monk said, dipping his voice so low at the last word that Andrzej had to strain to hear him.

"I'm very specific about my services these days. Gold up front as well."

"We have reason to believe that there is movement coming down from the north. The undead are on the move."

"And why should I care? I'm in Italy tracking one, and his head is rather important to me."

"We need your help, you can stop the same tragedy that befell you from happening to someone else," the monk pleaded desperately.

Letting out a harsh laugh, Andrzej took a swig of his ale and slammed the empty mug back on the table, looking through the inn for the serving girl.

"Why should I give a shit about anybody else?"

Davide frowned and reached into his robes, pulling free a purse that chinked with a sound very familiar to Andrzej's ears. Picking up the small bag, the mercenary felt the weight, using his thumb to help count the coins within. He had no wish to spill them on the table to reveal any type of wealth to this crowd.

"Now you're speaking my language. So tell me, where do I find these monsters," Andrzej said, leaning back in his chair.

The monk pushed a scroll across the table, nestling it beside the nearly finished plate of food.

"All the details are there. Make sure it is done," the monk said before standing up and leaving the tavern.

Andrzej smirked as he tucked both the purse and the scroll into a small satchel. There was some killing to do.


	10. Game of Wood and Flesh

**Chapter 10: Game of Wood and Flesh**

Alan's eyes opened to the sunlight trying to pierce the fabric of his tent. The scouts were all still deep in sleep, gently snoring as the knight quietly got up from his cot and buckled his belt around his waist, feeling more comfortable with the weight of his sword pulling down against his hip.

The muted chatter of morning in the Saracen camp greeted him as he stepped into the desert air, the heat already shimmering above the rocks that surrounded this sanctuary. The sun had only just crested above the small cliffs, making him squint against its brightness. One of the Afghans were silhouetted against the blazing orb, and Alan could not tell what the nomad was looking at.

Raising an arm to try and block out the worst of the light, Alan spotted Salaam in the largest tent of the camp, the sides rolled up to offer free access, but still a welcome reprieve in its shade. The Saracen warrior was sitting at a small table and as Alan entered the tent he noted the chessboard sitting atop it. The pieces were beautifully carved from wood, but they showed the wear of the desert. The paint was starting to chip and peel away and what were once sharp angular edges were starting to lose their shape.

"Do you play friend?" Salaam said waving his hand towards the board.

It had been a few days since the unveiling of the undead creature, and even Curtis had been able to see these Muslims as allies. Alan couldn't even bring himself to call them heathens anymore, even when he watched them go to prayer with the rising and setting of the sun. It was alien to him, but somehow fascinating.

"My father taught me. He said that it was not merely a game for kings, but of all warriors," Alan said sitting himself opposite Salaam, adjusting his sword so it sat comfortably.

"Wise words," Salaam said, turning the board so that the white pieces faced Alan, who frowned as he looked down at the figures.

"But I must admit that these do not look the same as I recall," the knight said picking up the vizier piece, or what he assumed was the vizier.

"This is much closer to the Persian game. I assure you though that despite appearances the rules are much the same," Salaam said to which Alan responded by replacing the vizier and moving one of his knights from behind the protective wall of pawns. Salaam raised an eyebrow before settling his fingers on a pawn of his own.

"Sounds much like our two worlds," Alan said, pushing a pawn forward, freeing a path for his vizier and his bishop. In his mind he wondered if the Saracen across from him had different names for these pieces he was so used to. For a moment he remembered the smell of a damp rainy day back in England, his father towering above him as he carefully explained the pieces and their moves, and how they tied to warriors on the battlefield.

'Everything is expendable to a king my boy, so long as he keeps his crown. To win this game you must think like a king. But in the real fields, remember that even the lowliest pawn is quite capable of slaying the king,' his father had said all those years ago.

"Indeed. It is a shame so many can not see past that," Salaam said with a chuckle, though Alan could hear the sorrow in his voice.

He nodded quietly, looking down at the board and its odd pieces. He nearly had Salaam in his trap, and was prepared to spring it, until the Saracen moved a knight to take a pawn still in formation. Alan frowned, realizing his king was in danger. He used a bishop to take the flanking piece, only to find Salaam's vizier taking that same bishop and putting his rook in danger.

"I'm sure you will be happy to go home to see your father in England, and leave the hypocrisy of this land behind you," Salaam said, almost cheerfully, but again Alan could sense the sorrow behind his words.

"A fever took my father some years ago. Still, my wife and son wait at home for me," Alan said, choosing to sidestep the second part of what Salaam had said as he brought in a knight to try and salvage his lines.

For a few moments his opponent said nothing, merely moved pieces carefully across the carved and painted board. It seemed so haphazard, like everything should be easily countered. But every move was calculated, precise. It did not take much longer for Salaam to trap Alan's king with one of his own pawns, and his vizier and a rook.

"Well played my friend," Salaam said.

"If only tonight would be so easy," Alan said looking across the camp to where he saw one of the Afghans drinking water.

"All of life and war is a game. The only difference is that we can change the rules."

* * *

><p>Night had long since fallen, and Gwenhwyfar sat at the front of the coach beside Elishka, watching the trees pass by, rays of the moon flickering through the branches and dark leaves of the forest. Elishka calmly held the reins and guided the horses along the beaten road. Gwenhwyfar flicked her eyes forward for a moment, taking in Adara's form as the vampiric beast of war pulled the carriage, a task she had not been bred for all those years before, but one she did regardless.<p>

Both of the horses were draped in black caparisons, their legs and hooves wrapped in dark sheets to obscure their flesh when the dawn came. Unlike living horses, these two would be able to continue eternally without tiring, so long as the daylight was kept off of them.

"We should reach the monastery just before dawn. We can restock for our two companions," Elishka said without taking her eyes from the path, referring to the two humans currently sleeping within the carriage. An aging soldier named Swiegsgard, and Arya now dressed much as a middle class merchant's daughter.

"They will need it, it is not comfortable to sleep in this damned thing," Gwenhwyfar replied, happy that she would be able to rest within proper walls this day.

The two fell into silence once more as the carriage careened through the forest, the horses' hooves thundering on the well travelled path.

A raven fluttered down from the arching branches and perched on the edge of the carriage. Black eyes stared into Gwenhwyfar's own, the bird unflinching as it faced down the vampire for a moment, before taking off and vanishing into the night.

"The Morrighan has given us a warning this night. Be ready for a fight," Gwenhwyfar said, grasping Caledfwlch nestled beside her, happy she was wearing her riding clothes for the journey rather than the gift dress.

Elishka glanced over at her companion, an eyebrow cocked in confusion, before a crossbow bolt buried itself into the wood of the carriage beside her. Figures burst from the trees, many of them wielding crossbows with axes and clubs dangling from their hips. They were clad in patchy dark brown garments and bits of chainmail armour doubtlessly looted from battlefields. Two of the attackers stood in front with long spears aimed towards the horses.

Whether highwaymen or mercenaries, Gwenhwyfar cared not. She leapt onto the back of the carriage, crawling along the top as the two horse's raised up onto their hind legs, letting out whines of distress. Gwenhwyfar looked back to see a spear piercing Adara's chest, dark blood rolling down the length of the spear before the war horse brought her hooves down on her assailant's skull, dropping him to the ground and snapping the spear in two.

The carriage brought to a sudden stop, Gwenhwyfar moved quickly along the top on all fours while Elishka pulled out her own blade and leapt off to meet the bandits head on. Crossbow bolts hammered into the side of the coach, and within Swiegsgard was pulling himself from sleep.

As Gwenhwyfar reached the back of the coach, where her chest for her gear was strapped down tightly, one of the highwaymen leapt up towards her, holding a small dagger. The vampire snarled, baring her fangs as she grabbed the man's wrist. A single twist was enough to snap the man's bone making him scream in agony before teeth found his jugular, tearing through flesh and sinew. Blood spurted from the wound across Gwenhwyfar's face and across her thirsty tongue.

Letting the corpse drop and spitting out the chunk of flesh trapped in her jaws, the former queen jumped down behind the carriage and found her trusted long bow and quiver of arrows. She quickly notched an arrow and turned to face the forest, drawing the string back to her cheek, thumb brushing against her skin, before releasing an arrow towards a charging attacker.

The arrow sliced through the patchwork leather he wore and buried itself in his chest. As the corpse collapsed to the ground clutching at the wound Gwenhwyfar felt an intense pain flare from her thigh. A glance down revealed the bolt stabbing into her flesh, blood coursing around the missile and soaking into her breeches.

Swiegsgard opened the side door of the coach, smashing someone in the face, before he jumped down and hacked down his axe into the fallen man's guts. Gwenhwyfar notched another arrow to her bow and loosed an arrow towards the crossbowman who had wounded her, tossing her ranged weapon back on the carriage when the arrow pierced the man's skull.

The vampire warrior pulled her ancient sword free from its scabbard, the blade glimmering in the moonlight as she moved around the coach opposite of Swiegsgard who was busy fighting one of the assailants, axes clashing against one another.

Gwenhwyfar found one of the bandits climbing into the carriage, where Arya was screaming in terror. The highwayman laughed coldly, before a strong hand grasped him by the collar tossing him to the ground. He let out a single yelp of fear before Gwenhwyfar's steel plunged between his ribs, cleaving his heart in two.

Slamming the carriage door closed Gwenhwyfar moved around the front, where she saw Adara struggling against the reins keeping her in place, blood staining her hooves and a broken body laying beneath her, ignoring the shaft of woof protruding from her flesh. The other horse was much the same but was unable to claim a victim. Elishka however was fighting off four attackers, two already lay slain at her feet.

Gwenhwyfar came up behind one, grasping his shoulder and stabbing him from behind, forcing her sword through flesh and innards, spilling his blood to the ground and letting the now lifeless body slump after the crimson stains. One of the bandits turned from Elishka, chopping down with his sword hoping to sever Gwenhwyfar's head.

Gwenhwyfar easily parried the strike before swinging Caledfwlch down and through his leg. As scarlet sprayed from the stump of his knee, hands clutching desperately at the wound as he lay on the ground Gwenhwyfar turned to her companion who had disarmed one of the assailants and swung two blades at his neck, easily severing his head, before turning to face another.

As Elishka fought, Gwenhwyfar turned to the final man, who started to back away, fear plain in his wide eyes as he reloaded his crossbow, hoping for one good shot at this creature before him.

The bandit managed to prepare the weapon before the former queen grasped the crossbow and head butted him square in the nose. She felt bones break, felt the sudden gush of blood from the man's face as he screamed. As he collapsed to the ground Gwenhwyfar stepped on his chest, looking down at him, before bringing her boot hard down onto his neck, crushing his windpipe with the blow.

Struggling to cling to life, and unable to breathe the man desperately clutched at his throat, staring up at the sky as his eyes began to roll into the back of his head. Gwenhwyfar looked over to her companion, who was wiping her blade clean on the torn jerkin of a dead bandit. With nostrils flaring, the former queen turned her gaze towards the forest, pulling back her lips in a snarl.

"Leave him be. He will not bring any harm to us," Elishka said, smelling the last of the attackers hiding in the wood line as well.

"Or follow us and kill us later," Gwenhwyfar said, lifting the dying man at her feet. She could hear his heart pounding desperately in his fear as death crept slowly towards him.

"Let me speed your passing," Gwenhwyfar said, and bit deeply into the man's neck.

Blood welled up from the flesh, pouring down her throat as she drank deeply from his life. Weakening arms tried to punch her shoulders, tried to break the vicious bite, but Gwenhwyfar would not budge. They were close as lovers, and she could feel his heart slowing as his life faded from him.

After a few moments Gwenhwyfar tossed the body down, her thirst satiated.

"We should continue on my lady. Dawn approaches fast and it would be best to get to the monastery before then," Swiegsgard said from the side, tying his greying hair back in a tight ponytail.

"Agreed. We have to leave as soon as possible," Elishka said, climbing up onto the carriage, while Gwenhwyfar knelt before Adara.

The beast stared at her master, ignoring the pain of its wound. A gently smile crossed Gwenhwyfar's features as she grasped the remains of the spear and pulled it free, letting Adara mend her torn flesh.

The warrior then took her place beside her companion, and leaned back.

* * *

><p>Watching from the shadows, Andrzej watched his hired thugs butchered like lambs before the unholy might of the two creatures he'd been hired to kill. It had taken him only a few days to travel up here and hire the wayward mercenaries, and the promise of payment had easily gained their loyalty.<p>

Luckily the hunter had not paid them up front, and the purse of coins still hung from his belt.

The ambush had not been fruitless, he had seen what he is up against, seen what the two vampires were capable of. The scroll had mentioned nothing of the two humans currently in the carriage; daytime guardians. Worse yet, they knew he was here, yet they were sparing him. He didn't know the answers, but he'd been hired to do this job.

As the carriage began to move again, the demonic horses pulling it once more down the road, Andrzej followed as quietly as he could.

Hours passed by, and the sky began to glow with the coming of the sun. Birds began to sing their morning songs, and the nocturnal hunters scurried back to their homes. Dew glistened on the leaves, and the carriage pulled onto a side path that cut deeper into the German forest. Between the rows of trees, Andrzej spotted a single stone structure surrounded by a short wall; a Christian monastery.

Stopping his tired horse, and lashing the animal to a tree, Andrzej crept closer to the structure, peering through foliage at what was unfolding before him.

The two vampires got down from the carriage, meeting with a monk in brown robes who invited them quickly inside while the two humans unloaded the coach. Some more monks emerged to help them, and the hunter watched curiously.

Why was the church helping these two? What had he stumbled upon?


	11. Forgive us our Sins

**Chapter 11: Forgive us our Sins**

Dust motes gently floated in the coloured rays, where the light of dawn forced itself through the stained glass windows of the chapel. Gwenhwyfar stayed close to the walls; in the shadows away from the colourful patterns arrayed across the rows of pews facing the altar. Her eyes however were locked on Elishka kneeling before the altar, draped in a heavy cloak so the sun would not burn her.

Gwenhwyfar watched curiously, unable to clearly hear the whispered words that flowed from the woman's lips, directed towards the heavens despite looking down towards the ground.

"She prays for forgiveness," a monk standing nearby said, noting Gwenhwyfar's look of confusion.

"Forgiveness? What kind of God would demand his followers ask forgiveness for doing what they must to survive?" Gwenhwyfar muttered angrily; she had never liked the prospect of the white Christ that had spread to her island and caused so much upheaval, chaos, and even death.

"A kind God. The one true God. Perhaps you should open your heart to him," the monk replied.

Gwenhwyfar cast a glance his way and shook her head, but kept her mouth shut. She had never trusted the Christians, not since the final war that claimed her husband's life. Not since they had risen up in arms against him in favour of a corrupt, power hungry man who merely claimed to worship their God.

A frown creased her face as she pushed the memories back down. After hundreds of years they still stung like knives. Behind all the wrongs done to her, every act of cruelty done to her, was the bitter truth of what happened all those years ago. Lust, betrayal and the destruction of everything she loved; it had been her fault.

The scrape of leather against stone brought Gwenhwyfar from her thoughts as Elishka stood from her confession. Moving over to the monk and Gwenhwyfar, Elishka lowered the hood of her cloak and met her companion's gaze.

"We should get some rest if you still plan on leaving at sunset," she said simply.

"Two of our monks are heading down to Vienna. They can accompany you south for two nights before they must turn East. Beyond that you are on your own the rest of the way to Venice," the monk said, waving his hand towards two men in brown robes, black crosses stitched across their backs and long swords hanging from plain belts at their hips.

"The Brotherhood is kind to offer assistance," Elishka said with a small smile, while Gwenhwyfar remained silent. She didn't trust this particular monk, finding his missionary attitude distasteful. In times past she had seen men like him rally peasants into a frenzy, turning once peaceful villages into a blood bath that turned neighbour against neighbour.

"It is the least we can do for the Clan of the Wolf, who march now to save the kingdoms of God," the monk said with a gentle bow.

Gwenhwyfar turned from the man and moved towards the doors at the back of the chapel that led down into the small crypt. The Brotherhood publicly said it was for fallen brothers, but in truth they kept the crypts mostly empty for vampires who needed sanctuary from the sun. There were not many amongst the living who knew of the existence of the Brotherhood of the Moon, a secret order of the monks formed by the Pope to keep a truce between the Church and the Vampire Clans.

As for how well relations were going with the Rose Clan, Gwenhwyfar could only guess. She doubted they would openly act against the clan however, they did not have the recourses for open war, like the other two clans did.

Stepping down into the damp crypts Gwenhwyfar closed her eyes and pushed thoughts of politics from her mind. Politics had ruined her before, and they could again. She was always meant to be a warrior, not a noble woman.

With leather boots tapping softly against the cold floors of the crypt, Gwenhwyfar crawled into one of the long alcoves dug into the walls. Folding her hands over her stomach she laid and rested, slipping into something akin to sleep.

* * *

><p>The heat of the sun heated his back through his travelling cloak, fighting off the chill that settled in his bones from the wind. It made Andrzej wish he were back in Italy where it was warm, and he didn't need to spend the nights struggling to keep himself from succumbing to the cold.<p>

With eyes fixed on the small chapel, the hunter spent most of the day thinking on the events he had seen as dawn began to break the sky. The Church had hired him, so why were they helping his targets now? Was this a gathering of heretics?

It would have been so easy to believe, but for the past few years Andrzej has learned not to so quickly jump to conclusions. He was pushing deeper into a world he thought he knew, and the amount of secrets lurking beneath the night sky was starting to frighten him now.

Monks occasionally left the chapel, making Andrzej freeze in place, watching them intently as they went about their duties, or prepared the vampires' carriage for travel once more. Sitting stock still, the cold sank through his clothes and flesh, especially as the shadows of the day grew longer and darker.

Finally the sun had dipped beneath the tree line; it's brilliance a fading memory with only a brilliant orange and purple sky as its testimony until the dawn. That's when they emerged, the two vampires in travelling cloaks that concealed their forms save their pale faces. Both of them turned their eyes directly towards him as they moved alongside the carriage, and Andrzej felt his blood run as cold as his skin. They knew he was here, yet they simply stood there and stared, while the two humans that had been with them the night before guided the unnatural horses from the chapel's small stables.

Andrzej held his breath, hoping not to give himself away with misty breath. His lungs were starting to burn as the horses were finally prepared, and the two vampires climbed up onto the carriage, their gazes finally looking away. He let out the trapped air in his lungs, mist pouring from his mouth as he watched the two humans from the night before climb inside.

Then two more men came out from the stables astride horses of their own, clad in brown robes and as they turned Andrzej could see black crosses sewn across the backs of their garments. Swords hung from ropes tied around their waists; these were no mere monks. Thinking back through time, Andrzej remembered seeing warrior monks like these men back in Italy, talking with a priest in one of the many churches that dotted the landscape.

These were not heretics, and that prospect scared Andrzej. Why had the church hired him then if they had a secret branch that worked with the undead? As the carriage pulled away from the chapel, back out to the road to continue their journey south, with the two riders following closely behind, Andrzej slunk back into the shadows. He had to return back south, had to find the priest that hired him, and demand answers.

He would not be anyone's political pawn.

* * *

><p>One of the Afghan nomads led them through the desert beneath the blistering heat of the sun. Salaam had mentioned the man's name was Karim, but other than that the Saracen knew very little about the nomad warrior.<p>

Alan had left his English made armour back at the encampment, wearing instead the thick tan cloth of the Saracens, and a white wrap over his head and face. The red surcoat with the English lions emblazoned proudly upon it, he refused to leave behind. He may be working with the enemies of his king, but he was still English. Salaam had no problem with it, and Curtis had smiled even as he dyed a yellow lion across the chest of his own borrowed robes.

The small group of a dozen men clambered over dunes, struggling through the shifting sands beneath their feet, and taking long drinks from their water skins. This was not a journey one would make normally. No it was always best to travel at night, or follow the water to stay alive. Necessity however drove them forward, though Karim seemed unbothered by the heat and hardly seemed to drink from his canteen.

Finally Karim stopped, perching atop one of the many dunes. With a wave of his hand he signalled for Salaam, Curtis and Alan. The rest of the men sat down, trying to get into the shade of the dune as much as they could.

Crouching beside the nomad, Alan followed his gaze to a small mountain that was only about an hour's walk away, but out here Alan wondered if someone would yet fall to the uncaring nature of this land.

The Afghan began to speak, however Alan did not recognize the dialect of his words. Even Salaam seemed to be concentrating as he listened, nodding once in awhile. Finally Karim stopped speaking, and Salaam turned to face Curtis and Alan.

"There is a cave not far up the mountainside. Karim says there are ghouls dwelling within," the Saracen explained, and Alan let out a sigh.

"Best get moving then, before the sun falls," Alan said, curious to the reports Salaam had given about these creatures not moving until after the sun set.

Lord Du Lac must have some followers still alive then, Alan had seen him with a retinue back in Acre, during broad daylight. He had said as much to Salaam, who agree that there would have been others to willingly follow an evil creature, and some who might not be aware.

"Agreed," Salaam said, before turning to speak with Karim once more. Glancing over his shoulder Alan saw Curtis merely shrug before standing and starting off towards the mountain side by side with the Afghan, perhaps wishing to prove his scouting capabilities.

The journey across the flat desert to the mountain was long and tedious, and Alan feared the return journey, hoping they would find an oasis or some other source of water soon. He had been right though in his estimation of travel time. It was only a little more than an hour's walk to the mountain.

Standing at the rocky base, Karim pointed up to a large opening in the stone, with a path leading up towards it. Someone was definitely using this place.

Without a word the group began to ascent, each lighting a torch and pulling their swords free from their scabbards before stepping into the darkness of the cave. They were greeted with a long tunnel that went down and deeper into the mountain. Walking carefully, with someone only occasionally kicking a rock that skittered down the floor, they made their way deeper and deeper into the darkness. The tunnel curled and wound around beneath the mountain, quickly losing sight of the sunlit entrance, the torches becoming the only source of light.

Eventually the tunnel opened into a broad cavern, with more tunnels carved into the walls and leading away into a labyrinth of stone. Bodies littered the floor, all clad in blood stained armour and soldier's uniforms, both Saracen and Crusader. They all clutched weapons, and didn't even twitch as the twelve men stepped into their domain.

"May the souls of the departed forgive us the desecration of their bodies," Alan whispered, holding his sword before him like a cross.

"Amen," Curtis said as he stepped forward into the room.

Karim's blade struck first, the curved sword lopping off the head of a former Saracen warrior. The remainder began to move forward, blades flashing in the torchlight as steel bit through flesh and bone. Their raid against the enemy seemed to be going well, the creature's hadn't even moved. Alan began to wonder if they were even resting ghouls at all.

A howl swept through the chamber, and at once the bodies began to get to their feet with raspy calls of hunger. All around them the dead rose, and Alan suddenly realized there were so many more than he had expected. Glancing over at Salaam, he could tell the Saracen was surprised as well. Only Karim didn't seem to care, moving swiftly, his sword swinging through bodies and spilling the blood of his enemies.

"Might as well kill them all," Curtis said, and moved forward to help the Afghan, sword flicking aside a poor spear thrust before decapitating the creature that dared strike at him.

A roar of defiance and anger sounded from the throat of every man in the room as they pushed forward into the now teeming mass of the undead, their swords cutting deep and spraying thick blood through the cavern. The rocks turned slippery; Alan was having trouble keeping his foot, but fought on, desperate to rid the world of this dark menace.

His foot launched forward, smashing into a ghoul's shield, making the creature stumble backwards into more of his ilk. Following through with a vicious thrust, Alan felt his sword punch through the bone where the creature's eye had once been, bursting out the back spilling brain and blood across the floor.

Pulling the long sword free, Alan turned in time to raise his weapon to deflect a mace's blow. The thundering blow reverberated up his arm, through the bone and he grimaced as pain shot through his hand. With a grunt he grasped the creature's weapon, dropping his torch to the ground, and gave it a swift head butt to the face, cracking bone and splitting flesh.

The undead abomination stumbled backwards and Alan lifted the mace above his head and brought it crashing down on the creature's jaw, turning it to bloody pulp beneath the savage blow. Chips of bone shot out from beneath the ball of steel and Alan swung it to the side again, forgetting the fallen ghoul as he struck another in the chest. Ribs shattered beneath the impact but the creature ignored what should have been a killing strike.

A harsh wind tore through the cavern, and all twelve torches flickered, struggling to stay alit. Alan looked down at his own light, wavering beneath the unnatural onslaught.

"_You dare enter my domain, and so you shall pay with your souls_," a voice sounded on the wind, scratching across Alan's mind. The voice was not Du Lac, it belonged to some other demon.

As the voice faded, the torches went out, and the wind stopped. Amidst the darkness the rotting flesh of the damned moved towards the blind men, and the cries of battle quickly turned to screams of terror.


	12. Lost in the Dark

**Chapter 12: Lost in the Dark**

It was utterly dark, not unlike what Alan imagined the pits of hell must be like. He acted on instinct, fighting against shuffles monstrosities in the dark, while moving towards where he hoped the entrance was.

Something smashed against him, and he wasn't sure if it was one of the ghouls or one of his comrades. Knocked to the ground, he scrambled along the rock, holding his sword tight, it was his only lifeline down here beneath the earth hidden from the sky and the world of man.

Crawling along the floor, between legs and over bloody corpses he tried to find a way out, looking for any sign of light. He felt fallen blades run along his body, pressing against his flesh. Boots hit him as the living scrambled in the dark for safety sending pain through his body as they hit him. Jagged rocks cut at his palms and knees as he moved as fast as he could, unsure of where he was going.

Something tripped over him, whether a ghoul or one of the hunters he didn't know, but he didn't care. Fear gripped his heart with an icy fist and he tried not to make any noise despite the blood now flowing from torn hands, and the sword scraping against the rock.

He managed to get into a clearing, and get to his feet. Leaning against the wall, a piece of rock jabbing into his bruised ribs, he tried to look around in the black, but couldn't see anything; he could only hear the sounds of struggle as the living valiantly tried to survive this place of death.

Moving along the wall he felt it suddenly give way; a tunnel. The pounding in his chest ceased for a brief moment and elation filled his mind. He hated to turn and run, but there was no way he could go back into the vicious melee and hope to survive. Turning into the tunnel he pressed his way forward, bloody hand against the walls to guide him.

As he moved he felt his heart lower when he realized that he wasn't going up, and there was still no sign of light. This must have been the wrong tunnel. Still, Alan held hope that it was another way out, that he could escape through this passage.

Moving along through the inky darkness he listened for anything else that might be around. The screams of the dying still echoed down the walls to reach his ears as he trudged through the black. One foot in front of the other he moved along, grimacing against the pain that wracked his body as he moved as quickly as he could.

As he went to set his foot down he felt air where there should have been rock. Too late he realized he was at the edge of a hole and despite himself Alan let out a shout of fear and pain as he tumbled downwards, falling further from the eyes of God and into the depths of hell. His body smashed against the walls of the narrow passage downwards, fingernails tore off as he grasped desperately for an outcropping to stop his fall.

His heart pounded in his chest as he fell for what seemed like forever.

The impact on the ground below send pain shooting up into his knees and he thought he heard something crack. He screamed again as he slid down a slope, sliding along the rocks and bouncing downwards, smashing his bruised body against the stone without mercy.

Tumbling forwards, his head smashed against something hard, and he was sent spiralling into unconsciousness.

* * *

><p>The waters of the vast lagoon sloshed against the sturdy wood of the large raft, which glided along towards the floating city of Venice, guided by two cloaked ferrymen of the Dragon Clan. Their long poles dipped deep into the water, pushing the raft along. They did not speak, nor did the passengers attempt to start any conversation.<p>

Standing alongside Adara, Gwenhwyfar watched the city loom closer and closer. This was where their ship awaited to take them to the Holy Lands, and Lancelot du Lac. Vengeance and possibly salvation awaited her across the Mediterranean Sea, but there were matters here in Venice that demanded her attention. Here in the Dragon Clan's territory, she guessed was the threat that had tried to kill her and Elishka back in the forests of the Holy Roman Empire.

As the raft pushed up alongside one of the many docks facing the mainland, one of the ferrymen turned to Gwenhwyfar and Elishka while his comrade tied the raft to one of the thick posts jutting from the lagoon. The shadows of his cloak obscured most of his face, but they could both see his pale thin lips, fangs exposed as he spoke.

"Respect our clan during your stay and you shall have no troubles here. Should you need to feed the beggars are as plentiful as anywhere else and La Perla has a deal with the clan to provide... sustenance," the man said dragging the last word out before a worm like tongue flicked across his lips.

"Thank you," Elishka said curtly though Gwenhwyfar could hear the disgust dripping from her words. Both Gwenhwyfar and Elishka knew about the well known brothel La Perla, and Elishka was ever the prude.

"Tell your lords whatever you must about tonight, but keep our arrival here quiet," Gwenhwyfar said to the ferryman, who cocked his head in confusion.

"But the arrangements made are quite clear. You are welcome in Venice; there is no need for such secrecy," the vampire said.

"There is a rose growing in your garden, and until we've plucked it out as we would a common weed, I'd rather our presence go unknown," Gwenhwyfar said staring into the shadows were the ferryman's eyes were hidden.

It was quiet for a moment, save the gentle lap of water against the dock and the distant laughter spilling from a tavern. Then the ferryman lowered his hood revealing a bald head with a dragon tattooed in green ink crawling up his neck and onto his scalp, where it curved until its snout was perched just above where the man's eyebrows should have been. His eye lids were closed and sewn shut with thick black metal wires, but he still faced Gwenhwyfar directly, his nostrils flaring every few seconds as if smelling her.

"Do you know where this rose grows?" he hissed.

"I have an idea... but it will take some time."

"How much time?"

"A few days at most."

Lips drawing tight the ferryman simply stood still, his fingers forming a steeple in front of his chest.

"I shall see what resources I can get for you... go to La Perla, seek out Hella McCormick. She has no affiliation with us and her... services will be of great use to you," the creature said, and without another word he and his comrade climbed onto the dock and vanished into the night.

"Now what?" Elishka asked, looking down the alley the two ferrymen has disappeared.

"Take the carriage to a stable, preferably one run by servants of the Dragon, then get us a room for the next few nights. I'm going to find Hella, and through her burn a garden," Gwenhwyfar said her lips pulling back in a snarl.

* * *

><p>Swinging down off his horse and reeking of damp leather and sweat, Andrzej walked into the quaint courtyard of the small church. There was no village for a few miles in any direction, so the monks that stared up at him with surprise would have nowhere to run.<p>

He was a God fearing man, but Andrzej feared no living being who walked this earth even if they claimed to be a voice for God. So he had no concerns with pushing open the doors of the church and walking between the rows of pews with his blade tapping against his side with each step. Another few monks backed cautiously away from the man who strode up to the altar where one Brother Davide kneeled before a bronze carving of the son of God.

When the monk heard the approaching steps he turned and smiled up at the mercenary, before noting the look of fury on the hunter's face which melted the smile almost instantly.

Rough gloved hands grasped Davide's shoulders and lifted him bodily from the floor and spun him through the air before tossing him into the first row of pews. The other monks bolted for the doors, desperate to get away. So their pacifism wouldn't even let them save one of their own.

"What is the meaning of this? I am a man o-," Davide started to say before Andrzej landed a solid punch across the monk's jaw sending him down to the stone floor. As the man tried to get back up, Andrzej grabbed his robes again and smashed him back into the pews.

"I don't give a fuck who you say you are. Tell me who you're working for," Andrzej snarled into the man's face.

"I work for the Lord of Heaven, and he wil-," Davide was saying before another punch hit him square in the face.

Andrzej could feel bone break beneath his knuckles, saw the man's nose shift on his skull with blood spurting from his nostrils and coating the front of his robes.

"Keep telling me lies and I'll send you to meet him much sooner than you'd like," Andrzej barked angrily.

"You wouldn't dare," Davide said with trembling lips, fear now creeping into his voice though he attempted to keep up a defiant facade.

In response the Polish mercenary pulled a long dagger from his boot and stabbed it into the monk's leg, just above the knee. Davide screamed in agony, his voice reverberating off the walls as he clutched at the steel that had slid behind the knee cap and nicked the bones buried deep in his flesh. Dark red blood welled up from the wound, quickly soaking the brown robes all the way down to his foot.

"I'm in no mood to fuck around. Tell me what I want to know or I show you firsthand how the Lord Christ felt on the cross," Andrzej said and Davide went white.

"I don't know his name! I swear to God. He just told me that the vile creatures were coming down from the north and that I should find a way to remove them," Davide sputtered tears welling in his eyes.

"You shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain... tell me the whole truth," Andrzej said, twisting his knife angrily.

Davide whimpered pathetically, tears running down his cheeks, the smell of urine filling Andrzej's nostrils as the monk's piss dribbled on the stone floors from under his stained robes.

"His lord promised me immortality, to live forever to preach God's grace. I don't know who the man was, he was just a merchant, just a merchant," Davide sobbed.

"Who was his lord, where was this merchant?" Andrzej demanded starting to put together the puzzle in his mind.

"Venice, the merchant was from Venice. He lives there, he swears his lord will take down the corruption of this world," the monk stammered, snot mixing with the blood flowing from his nose, running over his lips and chin in a drooling mess.

"Who, was, the, lord?" Andrzej said dangerously, spacing each word to punch them into the head of the pathetic blubbering mess brother Davide had become.

"Du Lac... the merchant's lord is Du Lac."


	13. Shadows and Shades

**Chapter 13: Shadows and Shades**

La Perla's extravagant face looked out over the lagoon to the west. Bright light streamed out into the night through tall windows to shimmer across the surface of the water. Strands of ivy ran along the three balconies and up the corners of the brothel, drawing the eye away from the wooden walls, their once rich colours fading with age and the harsh environment. Gentle laughter and the soft music of harps and flutes carried down the street, reaching Gwenhwyfar's ears.

Reaching behind her back to feel the slim dagger sheathed and concealed amongst the lace of her bustier, Gwenhwyfar let out a sigh. She would not need the weapon against any thugs or thieves that roamed the night, however should another one of her kind attack her, the sharp point would help even the odds.

Passing quietly through the door into the light and sound of the brothel, Gwenhwyfar could smell the spice of incense in the air. Women in tight dresses and thick cosmetics coyly conversed with potential patrons, a few troubadours in the corner played their music to instil a relaxing mood; to calm and soothe patrons' coin purses as much as their minds.

Gwenhwyfar could not blame these women for using their bodies to obtain wealth; this society left very little options for a woman to do anything on her own. Gwenhwyfar herself had seduced both men and women to get her own needs fulfilled, whether it be food or power. It did not always turn out so well.

The influence of the Christian church was felt even in this house of carnal pleasure. As Gwenhwyfar moved carefully through the brothel, not one of the girls approached her, though eyes tracked her with suspicion; an unescorted woman who did not work within these walls. Gwenhwyfar kept her eyes moving, searching the women, noting some with a neck band of a deep red, who looked up at her with a hint of fear; they were the concubines who had a deal with the Dragon, offering blood where others would give only their bodies.

On the second floor, leaning slightly on the railing, was a woman with long blonde hair bound tightly back in a pony-tail, her make up more subtle, her dress looser around her figure. Most would assume her just another concubine, while not bothering with her in favour of the ones who prettied themselves up to appeal to the base desires of a man.

With a gentle smile, Gwenhwyfar climbed the stairs, ignoring the looks thrown her way by patrons and whores alike. She approached the woman, earning a slight glance with a hint of annoyance on her features.

"Unless you have an appointment I suggest you move along. I'm very busy," she said dismissively.

"Hella McCormick?"

That got the woman's attention. She stood up straight and turned to face her visitor. A frown creased her brow and her arms crossed across her chest. Gwenhwyfar couldn't help but notice that Hella covered her breasts, rather than pushing them up with her arms; this was definitely no prostitute.

"A friend told me to find you here, to hire you for some select services," Gwenhwyfar said, pulling a small pouch from within her cleavage. The contents tinkled with the sound of coin and Hella raised an eyebrow, holding out her hand.

Handing over the pouch, Gwenhwyfar watched Hella open it, and count the money within.

"There's enough here for three nights, one outside the brothel. What information are you seeking?" Hella whispered, now walking along the railing, gesturing for Gwenhwyfar to follow.

"Do you know of the merchant Amadeo Castrogiovanni?"

"Very little, but I do know he has been getting rather wealthy the past few years with trades from the Middle East. He has a warehouse and a small villa down by the docks. He seems honest enough."

"Yes well he ties do not lie in the mortal world. I need you to find out whatever you can about him. Contacts, trade routes, messages, dealings from the Middle East. Everything."

Looking down at the pouch in her hand, tossing it up and down gently, the spy was quiet as she thought.

"Meet me here tomorrow night, with the same payment, and you'll get your information," Hella finally said.

"Another payment sounds steep," Gwenhwyfar said.

"Welcome to Venice, the city has no shortage of spies, and some quite cheap. You want quality work you hire the best, and I rank amongst them. Another payment for the information, I will not be haggled."

"Very well. I shall be here tomorrow evening," Gwenhwyfar said, and turned away, leaving Hella alone.

The spy leaned against the railing once more, tucking the pouch of coins into her dress and watched the other woman leave.

"You better vampire. Not even your ancient blood will save you should you cross me," she whispered.

* * *

><p>As Alan opened his eyes, he immediately spotted the soft glow of a fire, illuminating the rock walls of the caves he was lost in. As feeling and consciousness flooded back through his body, pain shot through all his limbs and up his spine. His head felt like it would explode it was throbbing so violently. A groan started to pass his lips before a hand clasped over his mouth.<p>

Fear shot through him, his hands desperately grabbing for his sword, a loose rock, anything he could use as a weapon as he tried to yell out screams of defiance. The shadowy figure holding Alan down leaned forward, revealing itself to be Karim who had a single finger pressed against the cloth where his lips would be.

Quieting himself, Alan slowly sat up as Karim removed his hand and shuffled quietly back to the campfire. Picking up Alan's longsword the Afghan tossed it over without a word. Alan took the sword up from the ground, just noticing the thin wrappings around his palms and the dirt caked over bloody flesh where most of his fingernails had been. Everything throbbed, every part of his body vying for his attention. Pulling the sword close he examined the blade; the finely crafted English steel had nicks along the edges, and deep gouges dug along its length.

With a sigh he laid the weapon across his lap, and moved closer to the fire, noting that it seemed to be made out of torches. The very ones dropped in the cavern above.

"Do you have any plans to get out of here?" Alan asked his companion, wondering in the back of his mind if any of the others had escaped.

Karim's response was to press his finger across the cloth once more. Alan looked at him for a moment, wondering if anymore was coming, but there was nothing else save that simple gesture. He didn't know why he even tried; the nomad couldn't even speak his language.

Pulling up the sleeve of his now filthy robes, Karim revealed a bloody bandage tied tightly around his forearm. Slowly he began to undo the knots and unwrap the material while Alan simply watched. As the bloody bandage was tossed into the fire, blood spurted from a deep gash along the Afghan's forearm. Alan wanted to help but saw Karim had it under control as he grasped his own sword which had been resting in the embers of the flames. The steel of the blade glowed red from the heat and the nomad pressed the weapon against his flesh.

Face twisting in pain, Karim held the sword against the wound, not making a sound so Alan could hear the flesh sizzling, searing the wound closed. Eventually Karim pulled the blade away, showing seared flesh with blisters already forming around the edge. His eyes still showing the intense pain, Karim tore off a piece of his robe and wrapped it tightly around the burn which almost immediately began to turn crimson.

'_The light cannot save you_,' came the voice from earlier, breezing across his mind.

Karim looked around holding his sword close as his eyes tried to peer into the darkness. So the demon could speak the Afghan's tongue as well.

The dark seemed to be pulsating, encroaching on the small haven of light that the two men were relying on for sight, the only advantage they seemed to have over the shambling creatures that lurked somewhere within the tunnels.

Alan tore off a long strip of cloth from his robes, and quickly began to wrap it around his blade. Karim glanced at him curiously before turning his eyes back into the shadows. Shoving his blade into the flickering flames, the cloth around his weapon lit up. Now standing, his head almost brushing the ceiling, Alan moved beside the nomad that had led him here and pushed his flaming sword out towards the darkness.

He had expected to reveal the demon, had expected to see the face of the thing that spoke to him. What he saw instead was Curtis, the scout's face torn to shreds, dried blood crusted on what little was left of his skin and the tattered remnants of his clothing. Empty white eyes stared back at Alan and Karim, his mouth hanging open as he stood and stared.

"Oh God," Alan muttered as he saw the ghoul before him, hoping that it was just an illusion. That hope was dashed when he saw Karim raise his blade out of the corner of his eye.

Out of instinct Alan extended his free hand and placed it gently against Karim's chest. The Afghan looked at him with confusion as a hiss came from the ruins of Curtis's throat. Trying to think of how to communicate with this man that could not understand a word, Alan simply slapped his hand over his heart, and stepped forward, long sword held off to the side so as not to hit the ceiling.

"Walk with God brother. Find peace," Alan muttered quietly, unable to think of anything else to help ease the moment. The blade swept through the air, cutting a brilliant orange arc in the air before cutting through flesh and snapping through bone, severing the head of the scout commander and causing the corpse to collapse to the floor.

Karim bowed ever so slightly to Alan, showing his respect before turning back to the fire, only to find the re-animated remains of Salaam standing before him, reaching out with severed stumps where once had been arms. Acting on pure instinct Karim slashed with his blade across the Saracen's midsection, splitting open flesh and spilling cold guts out onto the floor. With a yell Karim kicked out, sending Salaam stumbling backwards and falling into the fire.

Moving quickly Karim launched forward and brought his sword down onto Salaam's head, the sharp bite of the blade crunching through the skull and into the man's brains. Alan could only stare at the man that had been enemy, then friend, and now corpse. He felt empty, drained.

It happened so quick, just a flash and two close friends were torn forever from this world, and he couldn't even stop to mourn them.

"I am sorry," Alan said to Salaam's corpse as his flesh began to blacken and burn in the fire.

Karim grasped Alan's arm and began to pull; now was not the time for this, they had to move. Down the tunnels, from all around came the sound of shuffling feet. The dead were coming to pull the two into their embrace, and through it all, that demonic voice simply laughed.

* * *

><p>It had not been such a long time since Andrzej last sat in this tavern. The inn keep's daughter even recognized him and offered a smile that hinted at other services. It seemed like months, or even longer though. His hired thugs butchered, torturing a man of cloth, and finding himself involved in something much deeper than the vendetta he had carried with him for years.<p>

Draining the mug of ale before him, Andrzej let out a loud belch, his head light and buzzing. The joy and relief that usually lay at the bottom of his cups was not to be found this night, yet still he ordered another pint.

The night was late, business was slow, and Andrzej was pushing enough coin out to have the inn keep take notice of him, making sure his curvy daughter watched after him. She smiled and laughed at him, touching his hand whenever she took his coin and handed him another mug. Andrzej knew what she was doing, wanted him to fuck her so he could dump more of his coin into this little piss hole of a tavern.

It wasn't entirely working, but he began to wonder if he could find solace this night between a woman's thighs, where the bitter ale had failed so miserably.

When she came over for the next round he grasped her arm, and in a drunken slur asked her how much it was for a room. The answer was ridiculously overpriced, but he didn't care, knowing what the extra gold was going towards. Quickly finishing the last drink he grasped the serving girl by her arm and went up the stairs, stumbling along the way. The girl had to help him, and his vision swam so horribly that he couldn't see the look of disgust that washed over her face whenever she got a whiff of his breath or the sweaty reek beneath his clothes.

Reaching the top of the stairs he crashed against the far wall and nearly fell before the girl helped him to his feet and pulled him along to his room. She unlocked it for him before he stumbled inside and fell onto the bed.

Rolling her eyes, the girl locked the door behind her and began to undress while Andrzej fumbled with his clothing managing to get his trousers down around his ankles before falling to the floor. Managing to get to his feet he turned to see the blur that was the naked girl on the bed, laying on her back with her legs spread.

Climbing on top of her, roughly grasping at her flesh, he shoved himself inside of her without any hesitation. She grunted, though it wasn't from comfort, but Andrzej didn't care and simply began to thrust, his head spinning.

Then his vision cleared, and beneath him was Malina, her pristine face pale from years beneath the ground, blood still gushing from the hole in her neck where the beast had torn into her. She looked up at him, just an empty stare. There was no joy, sorrow, anger, or even an accusation. It was empty, and Andrzej yelled out, hot tears burning his cheeks.

"Oh God... I'm sorry!" Andrzej howled to the ceiling, pulling the corpse of his wife close to him, sobbing in her hair.

The body in his grasp squirmed, before finally pushing him away and letting out a scream. Stumbling backwards over his own trousers Andrzej fell to the floor, smashing his elbow against the floorboards as he watched Malina flee the room.

"Come back, please... come back," he sobbed before vomiting across the floor boards and collapsing once more. He laid there in his own filth, body shaking as the joy he had been searching for was crushed by the sorrow that had hunted him for years.


End file.
